


Upfall

by bell (belldreams), belldreams, usomitai (belldreams)



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Anakin is a mess, Anidala, Background Anakin/Padme, But I want to help him with that, Death, Dismemberment, Hypocrisy, I'm here for the long haul, Jealousy, M/M, Obitine, Polyamory, Tag updates as we go long, Unreliable Narrator, background Obi-Wan/Satine, obikin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2019-07-13 10:18:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16015865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belldreams/pseuds/bell, https://archiveofourown.org/users/belldreams/pseuds/belldreams, https://archiveofourown.org/users/belldreams/pseuds/usomitai
Summary: Anakin is doing just about everything he can to hold himself together; it won’t last.





	1. promise to keep it whole

**Author's Note:**

> Reading "A Passing Evening" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/15713154) and "a spring haze" (https://archiveofourown.org/works/15233109) may be helpful but isn't required. I will make sure to provide all the necessary context within this fic itself.

“He will not let me down. He never has.” 

\- Obi-Wan, “Revenge of the Sith”

 *

The door barely has barely shut flush before Anakin shoves Obi-Wan against it and throws himself against him. The resounding thump Obi-Wan makes as he strikes the durasteel is almost as satisfying as how easily his lips accept Anakin’s. Obi-Wan is here. He’s real. He’s _alive_. Everyone around him keeps almost dying. Just today, he’d almost lost Ahsoka to a ridiculous brain-eating worm. He’s lost count of how many times Obi-Wan has suffered internal bleeding, contusions, broken bones. Not even Padmé, a politician and purportedly immune, has been safe. Anakin runs his flesh hand through Obi-Wan’s hair. He needs to _feel_ him. The metal hand is better for sabre-wielding and crushing, but to grasp, to have, to hold— then it has to be his real hand. The electric sensors hold no candle to the nerves in his skin. _Those_ tingle at the merest brush of Obi-Wan’s skin. 

Something in Anakin stills. Quiets. Obi-Wan deepens their kiss, pushing his tongue against Anakin’s. It short-circuits his mind. Anakin’s hand relaxes, slowly sliding down Obi-Wan’s throat, his shoulders. Anakin kisses back with all that he has, angling for deeper, more. This. He can focus on the wet of Obi-Wan’s tongue. The roughness of his beard. The soft sound of their robes moving against each other, leather on cotton. Anakin could lose himself in this. But he needs more. _More_. Anakin pulls Obi-Wan by the shoulders. More touches, more skin, more desire to fog his thoughts into sweet, sweet oblivion. 

Obi-Wan chuckles. “My, aren’t we eager.” It’s hard to come up with a witty retort when Obi-Wan does… _that_ to his earlobe. A wave of pleasure pulses all the way from his head to his toes. Anakin’s knees flex. 

“ _You’re_ the one who suggested we— ahhh— share quarters to _save space_.”

“Yes, but that’s because I wanted to do _this_ to you.” Obi-Wan’s palm ghosts over his crotch. Anakin buckles in excited shock. Before he can rub into that welcome pressure, though, Obi-Wan’s hand moves up his sides, where they stroke him slowly, calmly. His look is entirely innocent. Then again, Obi-Wan loves to play it like he’s never mischievous.

“ _You’re_ the eager one,” Anakin accuses. Something hot flares up in him. Anger? Arousal? Hard to say. It’s just a shade too warm, too vehement. This isn’t a game to him. 

Obi-Wan smiles up at him. Those stupid blue eyes. Anakin could stare at them forever. “Don’t get me wrong, Anakin. I _am_ eager.” 

Anakin is rendered speechless. His Master. Eager. If he was hardening before, his cock aches now, needing touch. He wants out of this clothes _now_. He wants Obi-Wan on him. “Why are we still in these stupid suits,” he practically snarls. His fingers scramble at the release for his upper body armour. They’ve always been fiddly at the best of times, but his fingers suddenly slick with sweat, they’ve turned infuriating. 

“You’re the one who pushed me against the wall soon as we were alone,” Obi-Wan says. He seems calm. Relaxed, even. His hands continue stroking along Anakin’s sides as if he’d be content to spend the rest of time with these light, meaningless touches. Not only are these thoughtless caresses not enough to feed Anakin’s need for closeness, it just adds fuel to the fire.   _Want_ and _more_ cloud his head like smoke. “I’d be just as happy to take a moment and remove our clothes in a civilized manner. I like you naked.” 

Like. Naked. It’s a wonder Anakin doesn’t spontaneously combust on the spot. The catch on his armour finally gives way. He practically throws it against the floor, where it clatters. It won’t break, it’s made for high impact. And even if it did, who cares? Obi-Wan, apparently. He lifts a judgemental eyebrow. “What?” Anakin demands. 

“Easy, Anakin.” Obi-Wan frames his face in his hands. Looks him in the eyes. The intensity is that of staring straight into a flame. Anakin is transfixed. Why does he feel like he’s been rebuked? As if he were still a Padawan running off hot-headed. He’s a Knight now. He has the 501st who look to him for leadership. Eyes still on him, Obi-Wan takes Anakin’s wrist; kisses him where his pulse beats strongest. Anakin’s heart beats all the faster, pinned as he is by Obi-Wan’s gaze. Yet he is calmer, too. The simple gesture calms him down. Gives him the space to listen to Obi-Wan rather than react. “It’s just sex. This can be as rough or as slow as we like.” 

Mute, Anakin nods. Words have been choked off at his throat as surely as his windpipe had been shut close by the Force. How can this just be sex for Obi-Wan? How can he just _say_ that? It’s not that Anakin isn’t aware that this has to be the way things are. Obi-Wan would balk at more. It’d become an _attachment_ , which apparently is the root of all evils. It still cuts him to the quick that his Master could be so clinical about what they share. “If this is too much for you—“ Obi-Wan starts.

“I never said that,” Anakin counters quickly. He has to squash that thought out of Obi-Wan _now_. And forever. “It’s fine, let’s just get everything off.” 

“If you say so.” They kiss again, lips soft, then tongue against tongue. It does things to Anakin’s brain when Obi-Wan is against him. Distantly, he senses strong hands sliding his shoulder guards down, easy to come off without the chest plates. They must land on the floor, too, but without a sound. Next there is a tug at his waist. Cold air hits his burning lips as Obi-Wan turns his attention to his belt. He licks them, already missing the feel of his Master’s lips; watches in hushed anticipation as Obi-Wan unties him. The tool belt slithers down. “There. That’s not so bad, is it.” 

Words stick in Anakin’s throat. It’s not so bad. It’s just torture— having what he wants, so close, so near, but not near enough. He just nods. Obi-Wan can never know. If he knew, then— Anakin doesn’t even want to think what’d happen. Being talked down would hardly be the worst of it. Tears threaten at his eyes. Obi-Wan wouldn’t abide the depth of Anakin’s feelings. He’d go away, probably. Say it’d be better if they didn’t work together anymore. If they didn’t see each other. He might even advise the Council to expel Anakin from the Order. No matter that he was the best Jedi in generations. No matter everything that he’d done in this war. Everything he’d ever worked for, stripped away because he dared feel more for Obi-Wan than a fleeting attraction or plain, platonic _affection_. The mere thought of it humiliates Anakin. No, Obi-Wan can never know. “Not bad at all,” Anakin lies through his teeth.

*

Anakin being on edge isn’t surprising. It’s his natural state of being. It probably didn’t help that Ahsoka had gone through such a trial, her good friend and entire ship crew turning against her. Obi-Wan sometimes wishes he could just take a magic wand and make Anakin _understand_ that getting so worked up helped no one; to accept that all one could do was their best. Well, if he hadn’t learned it in a decade of apprenticeship, he wasn’t going to learn overnight just because Obi-Wan wanted him to. It was all right. He wasn’t going to give up on Anakin. He’d be by him as he learned this, the hardest of all lessons— letting go. He believed in Anakin. He’d get there.

Patience first. Obi-Wan knows Anakin burns to strip as fast as humanly possible. A longing Obi-Wan himself feels. Instead, he takes his time undoing the intricate layers of Anakin’s robes, as gentle as he were pulling apart the mechanisms of a ticking bomb. From his peripheral vision he sees Anakin watching through long lashes, breath ragged. The fabrics whistle softly as they pool around their feet. He’s almost impressed with Anakin’s discipline at not pushing Obi-Wan away to tear off everything himself. Almost. Anakin is capable of so much more. He just has to tap into that potential. 

Obi-Wan kneels, his knees meeting cold, hard metal floor. It’s quite the contrast to the warmth and sheer _energy_ focused in Anakin. He hears Anakin’s sharp intake of breath— surely from the proximity of Obi-Wan’s mouth to his hard, wanting cock. “No,” Obi-Wan murmurs; can sense Anakin’s hand stopping mid-air. Rather than give in to either one of their desires, Obi-Wan continues the meticulous work of removing Anakin’s boots, one buckle at a time. The leather slithers off with a sigh. Then it’s just a question of untying the final lace to Anakin’s pants. These tumble down without a fight, leaving Anakin naked and exposed. Obi-Wan doesn’t miss his furious blush, the red spreading across his pale flesh. 

Back on his feet, Obi-Wan lets himself eye Anakin from head to toe. He takes it all in. Anakin’s toned muscles, the gleam in the glove to his mechanical arm. His hard, red cock laying resentfully untouched against his thigh. Obi-Wan could look at him all day and never tire. But Anakin is practically shaking from the effort of staying still. This may be as far as Obi-Wan can push at this time.  And anyway, Obi-Wan himself is hardly made of steel. He too feels the pulse of _want_. It's not quite at _need_ levels, but with Anakin, it's always a near thing.

Better to just release it, rather than bottle it all up.

“Come here,” he invites, voice low. “It’s your turn.” Anakin practically leaps at him and Obi-Wan smiles. He loves his energy. It’s impossible not to get caught up in his excitement as he rips through Obi-Wan’s clothes as if cutting his way through heavy underbrush. Obi-Wan’s days are long, filled with endless violence and punctured by loss. He may not be perfect, but surely it is not a crime to find solace and companionship with someone he holds dear. It cannot be wrong to return a passionate kiss; to stumble backwards together into bed, fumbling to touch and simply _be with_. They twine around each naked, lips pressed against warm skin, tasting salt and sweat. “Anakin,” Obi-Wan whispers, having pinned him. His hair spread across the pillow, panting and fiery-eyed, he is an arresting sight. Simply beautiful. 

*

His breath is a wild thing, sprinting without thought or logic. Obi-Wan is on him. They are flesh on hot flesh and he is ablaze everywhere they touch-- and they are touching _everywhere_. Hip, abdomen, thighs, so much to press against. It’s not enough just to touch. There must be friction. Friction is relief. This is a holding pattern, tantalizing, infuriating.

Obi-Wan wants him to be still. He can tell. It’s that expecting look, like he's judging Anakin preemptively for running off half-cocked yet again. It's a test, isn't it. To show control. Restraint. "If this is too much for you,” he'd threatened. Too intense, too much. Anakin will show him. Obi-Wan’s touches are slow, thoughtful. Fingers through hair. A sloppy, open-mouthed kiss. They are naked and twined and it feels like they're stuck in first gear. 

"What do you want to do?” Obi-Wan asks indulgently. Like anything would satisfy him. _Want_ and _need_ pound a deafening beat in Anakin’s head. The specifics are vague and disjointed. Touch me. Kiss me until my mouth is raw, then kiss me all over. Move in me for hours until we're so spent we can't move. It’s hard to parse out the images and impulses rising in him, like trying to count the separate currents in a lava flow. 

It’s still a test. He has to get a hold of himself. “Get in me.” Anakin’s voice is strangled. But surely he won’t be judged for that. Surely he can have _that_ much of a reaction. 

Obi-Wan’s eyes narrow. “I thought you might say that.” 

Anakin scrambles quickly— no way Obi-Wan wouldn’t take his time— to grab from his utility belt the salve. He makes sure to always have it at hand. There’s never any knowing the next time they can be together. They can spend entire weeks apart on different missions, then be reunited hours after a hasty decision to send them on a join assignment. Their opportunities are such a scarce commodity he can’t risk _not_ coming together. Obi-Wan has refused before to enter him for lack of lube. Anakin’s not repeating _that_ mistake. He can practically feel Obi-Wan’s gaze on him, searing. Is it the heat of desire or judgement? 

Just move, do it quick. He can’t let Obi-Wan think. He straddles Obi-Wan again, kneeling on the thin cotton mattress. He’s already popped open the container, pouring the cool, smooth gel all over his hands. His fingers are steady as they complete this operation. If there’s one thing Anakin has mastered, it’s keeping control of his hands under pressure. He avoids making eye contact as he slicks his entrance. It feels so good already. He bites his lips, closes his eyes. 

“Let me,” and he can’t be imagining it, Obi-Wan’s voice is thick. Anakin loves hearing him like this. Loves hearing him being affected. The bottle is taken from him, and he hears the pop again. He shivers in anticipation. It’s going to be Obi-Wan’s fingers on him, in him. He wants it so much he can’t ask for it. There is a hand on his rear, fingers teasing at his crack. He sways into the touch. More. He needs more. “Get on your hands and knees.”

Anakin complies. The mattress is so thin he can feel the hard metal beneath his elbows. He wouldn’t have minded, but Obi-Wan throws a pillow at him. He almost howls. _Priorities_. Who cares about his comfort, when he’s got his ass up in the air and is ready? But relief comes. Obi-Wan kneels flush against his behind, thighs touching, and Anakin can _feel_ his cock pressing against him. He grinds back, teeth clenched. More, more. The cold gel at his entrance is a shock, but a welcome one, with Obi-Wan firmly pressing against, then into him. He almost sobs into the pillow. But he can’t. Not too much reaction. Keep it cool. It’s easy to focus on the intrusion. His muscles massaged, encouraged to open up. Anakin yields into the feeling. Hones in on it. Yes. This is what he’s been waiting for. 

“You good?” 

Obi-Wan sounds distant now. Like he’s on the opposite shore. Anakin nods. Realizes he’ll have to speak. It’s hard to vocalize. “Yeah.” 

More pressure. Anakin relaxes into a second finger. He just has to be calm. He breathes in deep. Obi-Wan tentatively moves in him, back and forth. Anakin rocks back against him in encouragement. He’s good. He wants this. The slick is warm now, coating his ass, running down his thighs. He’s gonna be okay. He starts to fists his own cock. His flesh hand is still coated with the slick, so it glides over nice and smooth. He goes slow, rubbing the base of his shaft. He can’t make himself come as well with his left hand, but the feeling is still nice. Then there’s another finger sliding right in and Anakin grunts. It’s good. He could ride this out forever. 

*

Obi-Wan loves this part. Anakin is finally _calm_. He can practically see the moment Anakin stops fretting and delivers himself to the moment. He can’t wait to get in him. His balls are tense, demanding for release. It feels so good to draw it out. See how long he can last. Discipline keeps him from just rutting against Anakin and coming onto his skin rather than in him. That would be pleasant, too. Seeing his come cover Anakin’s rear. Maybe having Anakin swallow his cock and make him bring it back to hardness, so that he can come a second time in his mouth. It all sounds good. The images are pleasant, adding to his arousal.

But Anakin loves getting fucked. So fucked he will be. Fingers first, to make the experience last longer. They go in and out easy now. He goes faster, deeper, trying different angles. What gets the best noises out of Anakin? Stars, those grunts Anakin makes as he drives in, the satisfied sighs. Obi-Wan could listen to those all day. But they’re started to get a whiny edge to them. Anakin wants more. The thought of it sends a fresh pulse of warmth through Obi-Wan’s cock. It’s time. He draws out his fingers altogether— there’s that keen again— and covers his right hand with a fresh batch of slick. One hand stays on Anakin’s ass, the other rubs his own cock, thoroughly getting it wet. “I’m going in now,” Obi-Wan says, more for the pleasure of saying the words than to alert Anakin. The notice is met with a long, deep moan. 

Anakin’s slid a bit, so he brings his ass back up. This is where it gets tricky, Obi-Wan’s own mind hazy with his want. He can’t just slam in. He carefully guides the tip of his cock against Anakin’s warm, sticky hole. Rubs a little bit, to ease in the entrance. Anakin makes this process no easier by pushing insistently back against him. “Patience, Anakin.” The pushing stops. Obi-Wan’s breath catches as the head of his cock makes it in. Fuck. Takes a moment. It has to be slow. No matter how much Anakin protests. There, a little bit more. The pressure and heat on his dick makes everything hazier still. He wants to just push in all the way and _fuck_. He strokes Anakin’s lower back, grounding himself. There, again, a little bit more. And centimetre by excruciating centimetre, he slides in. 

*

He’s almost entirely out of his mind now. Being filled feels so good, all his focus is on Obi-Wan’s thick cock in him, the way it moves, how it stretches him further and further. He doesn’t bother to control the noises coming out of him anymore. He’d said “Patience,” but Anakin shoves back for more, for deeper. And Obi-Wan _does_ , and, thank everything. Anakin’s hand falls from his dick, his arms forming a brace against the bed. All he needs is that pressure. That back and forth. Obi-Wan is _in_ him, and it’s all he wants. They’re together. Obi-Wan can’t take this from him. Nothing can come between them. Not any rules, not death. Not Obi-Wan’s opinions. A quiet fills Anakin. Everything is okay now. Finally.

“Anakin,” comes Obi-Wan throaty cry. How long have they been at this? Anakin has no idea. It could be seconds. It could be hours. “You—“ Anakin tenses. It’s not going to be something bad, is it? “You feel _so good_ —“   Anakin whimpers. “So good, you feel amazing—“ 

“I—“ Anakin starts. The words come to him as naturally as his cries and moans. _I love you_. No. He bites into his leather covered digits. Pain shoots through his electric sensors. He shuts his eyes and bites harder, the pain melting into excruciating. He can’t say it. He never can. Obi-Wan would never forgive him. He knows better. To say it would mean they couldn’t have _this_ , they couldn’t have any closeness. 

Obi-Wan says something, but he can’t quite make it out, drowning in his own thoughts. It takes everything Anakin has to hold himself together. To not say anything. To not give anything away. So he jolts at the sudden cold and abandonment— Obi-Wan is _pulling out_ of him. “What—“ Anakin exclaims. They haven’t come yet, neither one. Does Obi-Wan know? Did he figure it out? Adrenaline bursts into him like wildfire. But he’d tried so _hard_.

Obi-Wan’s still talking. Anakin catches him mid-sentence: “—on, roll over—“ 

Confused, Anakin turns on to his back. Even as he’s moving, Obi-Wan reaches for his legs, throwing them over his shoulders. Obi-Wan’s eyes are wild, pupils wide. He’s breathing so heavily his chest rises and falls. “You ready?” Anakin nods, not sure what he’s agreeing to. With a low, guttural groan, Obi-Wan enters him again, pushing in swiftly. “Oh, _Anakin_ —“ 

Something like relief dilutes the panic. He’s filled again. Obi-Wan just wanted to change positions. But his mixed feelings are jarring. The peace he’d just felt doesn’t come back. 

“Touch yourself,” Obi-Wan says. It’s almost— pleading. What does it mean? Why would he sound like that? “I want to see you come, come for me—“ 

It’s impossible not to obey. He tries with his flesh hand, rubbing hard and fast. Obi-Wan wants him to come. And he’s close. Obi-Wan is coming in hard and fast now, pounding like there’s no tomorrow. He strokes the head of his cock, sticky with his pre-come. He has to do it right. He can’t say the wrong words. He can’t come undone, not when Obi-Wan is watching. Anakin closes his eyes. Tries to block out the thoughts of _I love you_. Tries to be like Obi-Wan and just live in the physical sensations. 

“I love seeing you come—“ 

The orgasm hits him like a laser blast. He nearly cuts his lower lip, he bites it down so hard. Keep it in. Don’t cry. His body betrays him, shaking with the release. But surely that’s okay. Obi-Wan had _wanted_ some measure of this. He’d wanted Anakin’s come to splash against his chest, for Anakin to rock uncontrollably, for Anakin to be filled with the pleasure he’d given him. He didn’t want the rest— the messy emotions, the love, the deluge of _need_ — but that much he’d wanted. 

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s pace falters for a moment. “Oh, _yes_ —“ 

As Obi-Wan rides out his own orgasm, Anakin holds himself together with a single thought: _I can do this, I can do this, I can be man he wants, I can do this—_


	2. just keep me where the light is

Obi-Wan almost falls down on Anakin, shaken and worn. That was-- intense.  His thighs groan as he lowers Anakin's legs from his shoulders, then sing in approval as he basically collapses. Anakin gives him a full body hug and if his face is a little redder than it should be, well, Obi-Wan is sure his is as well. The kisses are immediate, intimate. Obi-Wan presses into him in a lazy rhythm echoing his orgasm; Anakin rises up to meet him. 

He's so sweaty. Sticky. Hot. Anakin's arms and legs wrapped around him do nothing to alleviate the heat. Tremors run along his muscles. He'd really pushed this time. He'd just-- never wanted to stop. Wanted to fuck into Anakin into the end of time. Anakin had seem just as eager, his energy in the Force suffused with pleasure. 

"Not bad," he murmurs.

"The worst," Anakin says back, cheekily. 

That calls for another kiss and a throat nuzzle. _I love him_. And there it is. Drowning in Anakin’s scent, covered in his sweat, the urge coiling in him to harden once more and take him again— the feeling is loud and very present. Satisfied by the touches, Anakin hums softly. His eyes close drowsily. It isn’t that Obi-Wan hasn’t loved him for a long time. The nature of his feelings evolved over the years, but it’s always been there. He may not be the first he’s loved, or the one who’s unmoored him the most, but— theirs may be the most intimate. Call it a factor of having been partnered for so long. 

When Obi-Wan rises, Anakin pulls at him in protest. “I’m just turning off the lights, Anakin.” 

“Hmph.”

The lights off, Obi-Wan also pulls a cover over their bodies. If he lets Anakin rest his head over his chest; drape an arm over him— it’s not that he doesn’t crave the touch. The top of Anakin’s curls tickle his chin; the leather of his glove is soft over his side. Obi-Wan allows himself the indulgence of lightly stroking Anakin’s back. He likes the feel of his tight muscles, the intimacy of casual caresses after such vigorous sex.

“Obi-Wan.”

“Hm?”

A beat passes, then another. Obi-Wan almost forgets Anakin called his name and is more asleep than awake when the rest follows. “I— thanks.” 

Obi-Wan chuckles. “Goodnight, Anakin.”

If Anakin mumbles anything else, Obi-Wan doesn’t hear it. He’s already asleep. Tomorrow will be another full day. 

*

Ahsoka glides smoothly on her back, the hoverboard rolling her to the underbelly of the ARC-170's power trunk. Her hind lekku is sore from lying on it for so long, but she tunes out the ache with the ease of long practice. Her sensitive sense of scent is suffused with the ever-present, overpowering stench of fuel gas, but she’s been exposed to it so long it doesn’t really register anymore. No, the soreness and stink are fine. What’s driving her crazy is the mind-numbing task of finding the _exact_ belt that’d broken from the thousands intricately weaved into the ship’s hull. 

“You _sure_ it’s a broken belt, Master?” 

“Yup.” Anakin flips into view for a second, hanging upside down from who knows what.   

“But the diagnostics said—” 

“Don’t care, diagnostics’ always wrong. Keep looking.” He gives her an impish grin and vaults back up. 

With a sigh, Ahsoka adjusts the flashlight tied to her forehead. The thing is, Anakin’s gotta be right. He always is, when it comes to engines. Her Master is such an odd duck. Impulsive, flippant, reckless— hardly the traits she’d heard lauded for a Jedi in her years as a youngling. But she couldn’t imagine being under anyone else’s tutelage. She has her own foolhardy streak. She doesn’t want to _be_ Anakin, but she learns from his example how to make the most of her brashness. She can’t think of any other Jedi Master that’d do the same.

The HoloNet News plays in the background. The jaunty-voiced presenter launches into each depressing bit of news with the cheeriness of a sports announcer. _“A group of Senators raise a proposal to bring rationing to Coruscant—“_

Distracted, she touches a live wire that zaps her, shock enough to sting. She just about kicks the ARC-170. Just about. She’s come too far in her training to have a tantrum. Up above, she hears the torch firing up. Anakin must be adjusting some of the plates on the winglets. He always said that decreasing their surface tension was the key to getting them to fly faster than regulation. And Anakin, speed fiend that he was, wouldn’t have it any other way.

“ _The Banking Clan announces meetings to discuss increasing loan rates—_ ”

“Where, exactly, am I looking?” Ahsoka yells out. This isn’t the only repair they’ve got on the docket today. She can’t spend all _day_ on it. 

“Hmm? Here, just a sec.” She hears some scurrying about and then the windshield popping open. “Just listen—” The ship hums into life, a soft heat flashing against her entire face and body. She _does_ listen. It sounds like… just like it should. Ahsoka reaches out again— maybe some Force guidance will get her the belt she wants— but for her efforts she almost scorches her hand. “Ow!” How did the ship get _that_ hot that fast? 

Ahsoka scowls. That's it, time for a break. Master Yoda would approve, she was sure. How many times had he told her, ”Win like this, you cannot. Come back with clear mind, and victory find, you shall." But even as she remembers her youngling sparring classes and Master Yoda’s infinite patience, she can just _see_ Anakin smirking. “You snooze, you lose.” How was anyone ever supposed to find true wisdom with all these opposite advices whizzing past each other? Who held more authority, wise old Yoda, or the Jedi he'd entrusted with her training? 

A compromise, then, as Master Obi-Wan would advise. It’d be a _short_ break.

*

High up on the top of the ARC-170, sparks fly from Anakin’s torch, bright and ephemeral. There's a slight charred odour from where the sparks he didn't wave off with the Force got his clothes, but that's not so bad, either. He likes the smell of burning. Anakin hums to himself a tune from a cheerful HNN commercial that’s always playing. 

It’s been a good day. He woke up next to Obi-Wan, never a bad thing. He got to make fun of his hair and sneak in some quick kisses before Obi-Wan insisted on getting up. Anakin’s feeling sore in all sorts of places— his knees aren’t too pleased with him, even with the pillow under them last night. The bruises in his glutes smart too, Obi-Wan must’ve held on too tight. He likes the pain. It reminds him of their lo— of what they’d shared. It’s not all he wants from Obi-Wan, not by a long shot. But if this is all he can get, then it’s what he’ll take. Hopefully the aches will last a long while. Until next time. If there is a next time. 

This ARC-170 is going to fly like a _dream_ once he's done with these panels. He'll nab it for the 501st when they're done. If Obi-Wan wants faster ships for the 212th, he can ask nicely.

He senses Ahsoka through the metric tons of metal beneath him, her frustration rising exponentially. That's okay, she’s learning a heck of a lot about wiring while she’s at it. All important stuff to know if you’re stuck in the middle of an abandoned planet with nothing but your broken ship, skills, and determination. No Padawan of his is going to be helpless. Especially not Ahsoka. He warms a little with pride. She’s come so far since he started with her. Didn’t she just survive that ordeal with the zombie worms? 

What he can’t imagine is a future without her. Without quite realizing, all he can envision for her is being a Padawan, forever his student. Forever working side by side, him dispensing knowledge.

With the torch going, Anakin doesn’t really catch the HNN announcements. All he hears are the metal shrieks as they yield to his whim. 

A keyword does grab his attention: “ _On Naboo, negotiations stall between the Theed and Otoh Gungan governments_ —“ 

The details of the political controversies between the humans and Gungans fail to capture his interest. Rather, his thoughts drift to Padmé. How long has it been since they’ve seen each other? It’s been far too long since she’s been in his arms, since they’ve made love. Not since that fiasco with Clovis— even now, his guts twist at the easy way the scum held his wife. Laying his hands on her and almost getting her killed in the process— another spark flies, this time catching his hair and singeing a lock. Anakin mutters under his breath. Padmé is true to him, he _knows_ , he doesn’t doubt. But no one should ever come that close to her. She’s the only one who’ll love him back the way he craves. He _needs_ her. 

Now the sparks are really flying. He turns the torch off angrily. They hadn’t even really gotten a chance to be together after that. She was busy recovering from the poison and before they could pick up where their romantic dinner had left off, he’d been off to Geonosis. He missed her. Missed her perfume. Her sweet smile. Her adoring gaze as she whispers her pet name for him. It’s not fair. Clovis stole their time together. Clovis—

The fury coursing in him trembles his fists. This isn’t— It’s over. Anakin closes his eyes. Tries to calm his breathing. He can’t let anyone see him like this. Padmé is _fine_. She loves _him_ , she _said_ so. Not like Obi-Wan. She promised she’d be his alone, that she understood he couldn’t bear it if she were with another. But the anger is molten, burning him. _His_ Padmé. _No_ one can touch her, she’s his, she’s all he has, he _won’t let her go_ — 

He’s hunched over now, forehead touching metal, hyperventilating. Promises mean nothing. They’re just words. Intentions change, evolve. He can’t hold on to her anymore than he can water. Maybe she’d say it’s only fair. If he loves another, why can’t she? And Obi-Wan, Anakin can’t make him promise anything, Obi-Wan would _never_ acquiesce to not taking on other lovers, it’d be undue attachment. Obi-Wan will go where he wants, when he wants, and Anakin is powerless to stop him. 

Without quite thinking, Anakin reaches out for Obi-Wan in the Force. He casts a lifeline. But what if he doesn’t reach back? They’re not in battle, this is a frivolous use of the Force, Obi-Wan will berate him. Anakin shouldn’t need this, but he does, he _does_ , he’s going to burn up—

Obi-Wan brushing him back to the Force, almost absent-mindedly, is an immediate balm. The heat cools. Anakin gasps, taking in oxygen, leaning into that psychic touch. Into the ghost of acknowledgement and connection. He’s not alone. It might not be all that he wants, but it’s _something_. 

He recovers slowly, trying to sink into the lessons Obi-Wan taught him, about being in the here and now. He’s in the hangar. Ahsoka is still working below. The metal plates are coming along. Nothing is wrong. 

_“Chancellor Palpatine has made a special plea to the Jedi to reclaim the Jungar System from Separatist Control and bring relief to its people—“_

*

The specs flash quickly on the tablet, but accustomed to the data flow, Obi-Wan keeps up easily. “And how many have gone back to Coruscant for treatment?” 

“Not too many, sir,” Cody says. “Just under three hundred. Some might not make it back, given the level of their injuries. They’ll be routed to non-military roles.” 

“Hm.” Obi-Wan rubs his chin. “Will there be any replacements for those not returning?” 

“When Kamino can supply more, sir. You know there’s a demand in all the battalions for more soldiers. And I know you like to get the new 212th members additional training before they join us on the field.” 

“Where possible, yes.” He sighs. “Sometimes it’s just the reality that we have to hit the ground running.” 

“You can say that again, sir. Anything else?” 

“No, just make sure the Troopers who are due for some shore leave get their time off, and that we have supplies for those with us.”

Cody raises an eyebrow. “What kind of supplies?”

Obi-Wan waves his hand. “The usual range. A bit of everything. There’s no way of knowing where the Council will assign us next, and they’ll probably need us there straightaway.” 

“Understood, sir.” 

Cody leaves to take care of the not inconsequential task ahead of him, and Obi-Wan crosses his arms, considering the rest of the hangar. They’re catching up on general maintenance duties while waiting for further orders from the Council. It’s rare to get a moment to breathe like this. Usually they’re being shunted from one corner of the galaxy to the next without barely a moment to think, off to solve a problem that needed addressing yesterday. 

The HNN keeps on spitting out its depressing updates: “ _The Hutt Clan rejects the Senate proposal to end slavery on their planets—“_

There’s a slight pressure at the back of his head, an insistent psychic touch. Anakin. Obi-Wan brushes back automatically, not unpleased at the random encounter. It does something to lessen the stress building in his chest, the one he hadn’t realized was building up in him until Anakin reached out. Perhaps he’d been more affected by the news than he’d realized. He hates having that blasted HNN playing. Makes him wish to split himself and be everywhere at once, an impractical and useless urge. 

Obi-Wan accepts the comfort from connecting to Anakin. If they come to lean on each other for support, it's as wise a technique as any to make it through this war. 

There’s a heated element to their touch. Anakin’s angry, no doubt. As usual. What about this time? Not that it matters. It can’t even be that grave, nothing’s exploding in the hangar. How he can keep his focus with bombs going off around him but lose his cool in a neutral space, Obi-Wan has no idea. He should be able to ground himself without the external aid, whatever slight issue he encountered. How many times has Obi-Wan told him this? Enough times that they’re both tired of the exchange. How can he get through to Anakin? 

Obi-Wan sighs and continues reviewing the personnel files Cody gave him, the problem presented by his former Padawan at the back of his mind.

*

Ahsoka returns to the problem ship, her arms crossed. “Okay, Anakin. You win, show me what I’m missing.” She’s met with a great big silence. But she _knows_ he’s there, she can feel his tension. Who knows what’s bothering him this time. “C’mon, Skyguy.” Usually the best way to ride out his moodiness is just to pretend it isn’t there. 

When he finally shows his face, it’s pale. He springs down the many meters to the ground, hand and knee briefly touching the floor where he lands. “If you’d just listened, you’d have heard it.” 

“I _did_ —”

Rather than go under where Ahsoka spent the last few hours of her life, he goes straight for the starboard passive sensor at the ship’s nose. Without even looking, he picks one of several screwdrivers from his belt and pops open a panel. There, at the very top, is a snapped belt. 

“Are you _kidding_ me? How could you hear that?” Grump or not, Anakin sometimes seems like a wizard. 

Something like colour comes back to his skin. “There was a slight _rrrr, rrrrr_ ,” he says, mimicking the sound. Now that he mentions it, Ahsoka half-remembers the noise.

As usual, Anakin’s right. But as she pulls out the replacement, she can’t resist asking, “Would it even make that much of a difference?” 

His eyebrow quirks like she’d said something incredibly inappropriate. “You know better than to ask that.” He’s got that tone of self-importance he likes when he’s showing off. 

Ahsoka grins. Show-off Anakin is better than sulky. “Yeah, yeah, I know.” 

“ _Famines on Ryloth reach peak levels as millions cannot returned to wrecked homes_ —“ 

She’s about done the fix when she senses her honorary Master coming by. “Hey,” she says, looking over her shoulder. 

“Hello,” Master Obi-Wan says. He nods at Anakin, who nods back. Like they’re hiding anything. She goes back to looping in the belt. Even without looking, the shift in Anakin’s energy is palpable. She rolls her eyes. 

“How are the repairs coming along?” Obi-Wan asks. There’s a slight teasing tone to his question, as if he knows perfectly well how far they haven’t come along. Leaving the panel hanging open, Ahsoka brushes her hands on her skirt and turns to properly join the conversation. 

“Oh, you know,” Anakin says breezily, as if he hadn’t just been about to bite heads. Is he _smiling_? And Obi-Wan’s giving him that sappy look. They should just get a room already.

Obi-Wan continues their banter. “I take that to mean one ship is ready to fly at speeds even _you_ find fast enough, but the others are still grounded?”

Anakin crosses his arms. “When you put it that way, it sounds bad.” 

“Let’s just finish up the minimum on the other ships, shall we?” Obi-Wan pats Anakin’s shoulder, who lights up like a million stars just exploded. 

“On it,” Ahsoka says quickly, eager to move away. All’s that left is reattaching the panel. She drives in the screws and begins the neat, tidy twists to get them back in.

Ahsoka really, really hopes Master Obi-Wan knows what he’s doing. He told her once that attachments are fine as long as they’re under control, but however much she looks up to Anakin, control isn’t exactly his top ability. He doesn’t even seem to think attachment can lead to bad decisions— look at his reaction when she couldn’t do the right thing with Barriss. She’d have let thousands die before killing her, even when she’d already been infected. Ahsoka shakes her head. She’d _meant_ to kill Barriss. She just couldn’t. Even now, her throat chokes at the thought of it. 

Worse, she doesn’t really regret her choice. Not when this morning Ahsoka got to see her smile and hear her soft goodbye. If it happened all over again, she’s still not sure she could save the thousands over Barriss. It’s good Barriss had to go back to Master Luminara. Ahsoka needs to think things over. 

The HNN doesn’t stop. How can there be so much bad news? It barely registers anymore. Ahsoka packs her tools to take to the next ship, not really hearing the announcements anymore. _“The terrorist group Death Watch has claimed responsibility for the bomb that killed over a dozen and injured the Duchess of Mandalore_.” 

She zips the pack, stands up, and is surprised to see Obi-Wan’s pallor. “What is it, Master? You look like someone just dropped dead.” 

Anakin crowds into Obi-Wan’s space, peering into his face. “Yeah, what is it?” 

But Master Obi-Wan just shakes his head, his lips tight. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just that I’ve met the Duchess. I’m sorry to hear she’s being targeted again.” He brushes past Anakin, almost bumping his shoulder. Of course, Anakin looks after him like he has no idea what to make of this. “That’s enough. We have work to do.” 

“Well, this is great,” Ahsoka mutters under her breath. She’s got a bad feeling about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from John Mayer’s “Gravity”


	3. something better than in the middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Obi-Wan would appreciate a moment to process the news of the attack on Mandalore; no one will let him have it.

It happens in the blink of an eye, as all crises do. One moment he’s teasing Anakin, and the next— “ _The terrorist group Death Watch has claimed responsibility for the bomb that killed over a dozen and injured the Duchess of Mandalore_.” Everything goes quiet. He doesn’t hear the dozens of Troopers working on repairs, the next announcement on HNN, or Anakin’s words. For one hazy moment, Obi-Wan is defined by this alone: _the Duchess of Mandalore, injured_.

Distantly, he recognizes himself experiencing the physiological symptoms of emotional distress. Rapid pulse. Shortness of breath. Nausea. 

_Satine_.

He can’t save her. She wouldn’t want him to. Injured could mean anything. A concussion. A lost limb. Near death. A scratch. 

Obi-Wan forces himself to refocus his senses. Ahsoka’s staring at him. Her words filter through his consciousness. “—like someone just dropped dead.” 

Anakin forces himself into his field of vision. Obi-Wan instinctively takes a step back. Anakin’s eyes are too close, too prying, too worried. He’s showing everything that Obi-Wan would try to let go. “Yeah, what is it?” Anakin asks.

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. He’s just experiencing a reaction. A natural one, given the depth of his feelings for Satine; how he’d dedicated an entire year to her well-being. But he can survive anything. This is just an old wound rearing its head. “No, it’s nothing. It’s just that I’ve met the Duchess. I’m sorry to hear she’s being targeted again.” 

Somehow, Anakin manages to look more upset than he’d let himself feel. Obi-Wan’s heart gives a complicated squeeze; this has nothing to do with Anakin. He doesn’t want to affect Anakin with what is his own personal business. Doesn’t want, either, to have to help Anakin process his reaction to _his_ reaction. Obi-Wan just needs a moment to gather himself. He must let go that which he cannot change or help. To accept again, as he has so many times, his decision to not have Satine be a part of his life. 

“That’s enough. We have work to do.” Obi-Wan says. He hopes to distract Anakin; he also knows better. He won’t be placated by so flimsy a ruse. 

Obi-Wan walks away; he has not gone twenty meters before frantic footsteps follow. Of course. Anakin wouldn’t understand the meaning of space if it bit him.

At least they’re out of everyone’s view when Anakin yanks his arm. “Master,” Anakin hisses. 

“Can’t this wait?” Obi-Wan asks, tone neutral. What “this” meant, exactly, was unclear. Anakin’s questions? Quelling his worries? A confrontation? Whatever it was, it feels unjust to insist when he’s still in the grip of his reaction to the news that Satine is hurt. Then again, Obi-Wan doesn’t know why he expected any different from Anakin. 

“What’s wrong?” Anakin pleads. “You’re not okay, just tell me what happened. Why’re you so upset?” 

His head feels heavy. Obi-Wan presses a hand to his temple. He’s still experiencing a bodily reaction— sweat covers his palms, his face. He forced himself to walk, but what he wants is to run and climb into any of these ships and press in the coordinates to Mandalore, the same one he’s known by heart for a decade. If Anakin would just give him _space_ — but that’s not how Anakin works. And all he wants is to help. There’s no harm in that.

A direct route, then. Just face the problem head-on. The more immediate one first. Obi-Wan clasps the metal hanging clinging to him; pulls it and Anakin closer. Anakin’s eyebrows knit together in concern and anticipation. Why is _he_ taking this so hard? He’s probably never thought of Satine once in his life, what does this matter to _him_? It’s an unkind thought; it’s why Obi-Wan must gather himself. He’s not in his right mind. “I see that you’re worried about me, Anakin. You needn’t be. I’m fine.” 

Anakin’s gaze is so sharp it could pierce steel. “That’s a lie, Obi-Wan. What’s the matter?” 

Oh, that old tenacity. Contradictorily, out of nowhere, it is comfort to Obi-Wan. Even if everyone else had given up on Obi-Wan, Anakin would be the one to pursue him to the ends of the galaxy. It wasn’t necessarily a trait he wanted to foster in his former Padawan with an attachment issue too profound to bear, but in this moment of disruption, it means more to Obi-Wan that he’d like to admit that someone would feel so strongly for him. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?” 

His metal grip tightens. “Never.” 

“Very well.” The way out of this trap is simple enough: give in. Obi-Wan presses a kiss to Anakin’s temple. “I just need some time. I’ll tell you later.” 

Anakin’s stricken expression suggests this is perhaps the worst possible thing Obi-Wan could’ve said. However, he will just have to accept it. Obi-Wan is allowed his space. 

“Go work on those ships,” Obi-Wan says as warmly as he can. “It’ll take your mind off me.” 

With a final squeeze of Anakin’s leather glove, Obi-Wan takes his leave. 

*

For all that his artificial arm has fewer sensors, the gaping air in Anakin’s open hand feels like an injury. Obi-Wan just _walked away_. He’s never seen his Master this shaken, like his foundations were blown apart beneath him. Who is this Duchess? Since when has _Mandalore_ meant anything to Obi-Wan, besides the Clones having been templated on one of their warriors? Or is it something else? 

You needn’t worry, he’d said. And why would Obi-Wan think he _should_? All they’re doing is sleeping together. To Anakin, that means-- and to Obi-Wan, it’s nothing. Anakin closes his eyes, the grief spreading, numbing his veins. He knew this going in. He had no choice but to accept Obi-Wan’s terms, anything, anything, so long as he _could_ have Obi-Wan-- it’s still a vicious kick to the gut to see the inevitable. He’s nothing to Obi-Wan. 

Scowling, he returns to the ships. Ahsoka’s up on the wing of a Delta-7, prying open the droid port. She looks him over and, apparently deciding it isn’t worth risking interaction, resumes her work without a word. Good. He’s in no mood. 

He strides into the _Twilight_ and in the engine room finds himself a datapad. “Duchess of Mandalore,” he instructs. The datapad immediately pulls up a complete profile. She’s-- young. Obi-Wan’s age. Beautiful. Regal, even, with her sharp facial features and the intricate headpiece weaving feather and cloth into her hair.  

Anakin’s heart tightens. He glances over the words. Ruler of Mandalore, representative of the Independent Systems. Stepped into power as a teenager after her parents had been brutally murdered by an opposing faction. Had overseen the longest stretch of peace on her planet. Nothing about the recent attack or torrid romances with Jedi Masters. 

He chucks the datapad back on to the control board. Her being beautiful and powerful means nothing. What had Obi-Wan said? That they’d met. Was it once or more than that? What did “meet” mean? He saw her once at a ceremony and was fascinated by her indubitably fancy Duchess dress? Or was it more intimate? At a party, where they’d both realized how attractive they were and--

Anakin’s throat closes on him. It couldn’t have been just the once, at a distance. She wouldn’t have left that deep an impression on Obi-Wan. He’s not like Anakin, who fell in love with Padmé in an instant. There’s more to it, he knows. His gut screams it. He can’t forget Obi-Wan’s look at the news, like he’d been personally stabbed-- no, not even. Even when he’s been literally stabbed and gushing blood he hasn’t looked that torn.

There are no promises between them. How can there be? Maybe this’d been a mistake. Before Anakin had dared kiss Obi-Wan, he’d been-- resigned. Accepted that there could never be anything between him and Obi-Wan. As a Padawan, he’d quietly observed Obi-Wan’s flirtations, untouched, because how could he be jealous of what wasn’t his? Resenting Master Vos or any of the other flings he picked up offworld would’ve made as much sense as cursing a volcanic eruption. Obi-Wan was beyond him. Anakin had ached for his attention, but the absolute lack of hope had been easier than this treacherous inbetween state. His Master’s lover, but only when convenient.

But now Obi-Wan’s been _in_ him, more times than Anakin could count, and they’ve kissed and laughed naked together and Anakin knows it isn’t true, but Obi-Wan is _his_ now. The grief that numbed him turns hot. He looks out the viewport, scanning for Obi-Wan. He remains out of sight, but Anakin feels him, a brightness in the Force, his shine no less diminished by the impact of the Duchess’ news. 

What if-- what if Obi-Wan _were_ his. For real. Anakin’s head spins. He’s never let himself contemplate that possibility before. It seems impossible. But what _if_. Obi-Wan, his to love, his to have. So that he’s never again humiliated and confused by someone he’s never even heard of before. How could he? Obi-Wan’s never been his to control. Not like Padmé, so sweet, who understands, who gives him what he needs. Guarantees, promises. The mere _thought_ of Obi-Wan doing the same thrills Anakin. Is an antidote to the venom choking him. Anakin has no idea how, but the idea is so sweet, so delicious, he cannot let it go. Obi-Wan. His. 

*

Anakin’s the last one to arrive in the communications room. Wall-sized panels displaying maps, statistics, and diagrams pulse in green all around him. Groups of clones gather at each of the panels, deep in discussion. Anakin nods at them as they look at him; pats the backs of Rubble and Stutter of the 501st. 

He pauses when he reaches his destination, the transmitter. He sees Ahsoka’s montrals first; she gives him a half-grin as he approaches, baring a friendly fang. “Hey there, Master.” 

He must seem more approachable than when he’d stormed off from her. He feels it, too. Something like grim determination keeps Anakin calm and collected even as he spots Obi-Wan. He’s gonna fix this problem somehow.

“Good of you to join us,” Obi-Wan says with humour. As if he hadn't been sweaty and pale earlier from worry.

“What’s up?” Anakin says. He can play this game of denial. For now, anyway. Until he figures out how to get what he wants. 

“We’ve got a call from Coruscant,” Ahsoka says. “Now that we’re all here--” 

Obi-Wan presses the button to make the connection. “General Kenobi, General Skywalker, and Padawan Tano here.” 

Blue shimmers over the circular table; takes the form of Chancellor Palpatine and-- “Padmé!” Anakin exclaims before he can stop himself. His wife smiles indulgently back at him. It is good that everyone knows of their “friendship.” He wouldn’t have been able to hide that much. Anakin returns her smile. “And Chancellor Palpatine, what an honour,” he says before his actual friend could feel left out. 

Two of his favourite people. It’s like an omen. An implicit approval of his quiet resolution.

Chancellor Palpatine looks down kindly at all of them. “Thank you for returning my call. I am always grateful for your unwavering support.” 

“We are at your service, Chancellor,” Obi-Wan says smoothly. Hands behind his back, he makes a small bow. That’s rich. Anakin knows he’s hardly the Chancellor’s biggest fan. “What can we do for you?” 

“Perhaps you’ve heard the news,” Padmé intercepted, stepping forward. Pearls cascade from her elongated headpiece, swaying gently as she speaks. “There’s been an attack on the Duchess of Mandalore.”

_What_ — is she going to chase him all day? Even his _wife_ cares about this Satine? Anakin grits his teeth; casts a glance at Obi-Wan. Maybe he stands a smudge straighter. Maybe.

“Yeah, we heard it on the radio,” Ahsoka says. “What about it?”

“We were hoping you could go to Mandalore,” Chancellor Palpatine says. “And aid her. Make sure she’s protected, and stop this… _Death Watch_.” 

Obi-Wan rubs his beard, his other hand holding his elbow. When he speaks, it is cautiously. “If you do not mind me asking— why? The Mandalorian System belongs to the Council of Neutral Systems, and they’ve made it clear they wish for no interference from either the Galactic Republic or the Separatists. They would not welcome our aid.” 

That’s weird. Why wouldn’t Obi-Wan jump at the chance to help them, when he was so worried? 

“It is true that the Mandalorian Systems opted out of joining our Republic,” Chancellor Palpatine says with a hint of regret. “Which is what makes this so tricky. I feel that the _right_ thing to do is to support them. They’ve had such struggles in recent times, I should hate to see them fall back on their— quarrelling ways. There is war enough right now, is there not?” Anakin has to concede this much is true. The Clone Wars is enough for any galaxy. “And even if we needed to be motivated by selfish motives, if the Duchess is felled, that would leave a power vacuum that would be _too_ tempting for the Separatists to resist.” 

“Why ask us? Why not go to the Senate or the Council?” Ahsoka asks. 

Padmé tries a half smile. “You know as well as I do that the Senate would discuss this for weeks on end without reaching any kind of resolution.” 

“As for the Council…” Palpatine pauses. “My impression is that they would be more open to the idea if it came from their own.”

“Surely not,” Anakin says. He may want nothing to do with this Duchess, but he can't stand by this insult on his dear friend. “The Council should welcome your input.”

Chancellor Palpatine merely smiles sadly. “I certainly hope you are right.”

“Please,” Padmé interrupts. “You know the Council so well, Obi-Wan. This does fall out of their jurisdiction, and I don't know what I'll do if you and Anakin--and Ahsoka--can't go.” Her eyebrows come together in upset. “Satine's a dear old friend of mine. I can't let her get in over her head, but she's just so _proud_ \--”

“Friend?” Anakin echoes. “You know her, Padmé?”

“We go back a long way. She made a point of showing Mandalore’s support after the Trade Federation Invasion.”

The Trade Federation Invasion. The event that had changed his life, with Qui-Gon and Padmé descending on Tatooine in an emergency landing. That event had carried him across the galaxy to Coruscant to become a Jedi; and that led him to Obi-Wan. How had he never heard of this Satine until now? Anakin shifts from one foot to another, restless. Why do he and Padmé have to be talking across star systems? He has so much to ask her. 

“And you know her too, right, Master Kenobi? She always spoke so highly of you,” Padmé continues.

“Oh?” Chancellor Palpatine gazes at Obi-Wan. “Do you?”  

“From a long time ago,” Obi-Wan says smoothly.

He seems ready to say more when Ahsoka steps in, eyes wide and alert. “What do you want us to do?” she asks. She seems to miss Obi-Wan’s judgemental eyebrow lift; Anakin’s own scowl. Her eagerness to take on challenges is usually one of the things he likes most about her, but Anakin’s not feeling too wild about it now. Seems like Obi-Wan is on the same page about that. 

“Any help you could lend us would be greatly appreciated, of course,” Chancellor Palpatine says. He is always so graceful and kind. “Ideally, find out who’s running this Death Watch. If we can stop them, so much the better.” 

“And make sure Satine doesn’t get hurt again,” Padmé adds. 

“Right, she was injured… What happened?” Ahsoka asks. Obi-Wan’s cool facade suddenly breaks; there’s a tension in the Force again. 

“Shrapnel to her arm, from what I understand,” Chancellor Palpatine says. “If you’re able to accept this mission, I can forward you a report with more information.” 

“A project of this size is no small undertaking,” Obi-Wan almost snaps. “Who knows how big this Death Watch is, or what it’d take to bring it down. And to protect Satine, we’d need to keep one of us at her side at all times. It would take at least the three of us, if not more Jedi and Troopers, for who knows how long. We’d have to see with the Council if they could spare us.” 

“Would you?” Chancellor Palpatine asks. “That would be very kind.” 

The thing is, Anakin knows that there’s not really much choice in the matter. If the Chancellor asks, then it happens. Who the heck knows why everyone’s fixated on this Duchess or why they care about a system that couldn’t be bothered to join the Republic. But if the Chancellor, who has done so much for him, and Padmé, ask for this favour, then Anakin sees no way around it. “Of course we will, Chancellor.”

And anyway, it might be a chance to dig more into this— thing between her and Obi-Wan.

Even if Anakin’s not sure he wants to know. 

Padmé holds a hand to her heart. “Thank you, An— General Skywalker. I knew I could count on you.” 

Anakin kind of hates everything right now. How had he ended up in this position again? “Always at your service, Senator.” 

“Well,” Obi-Wan says a little grimly. “It seems we have come to a decision. Let’s see what we can do.” 

“That’s all I ask,” Chancellor Palpatine says. 

The transmission completed, the room seems oddly quiet, even with all the Troopers around them. 

“Should we contact Masters Yoda and Windu now?” Ahsoka asks brightly. Then, at the looks she gets from Anakin and Obi-Wan, “What?” 

*

Obi-Wan rubs his eyes. This isn’t what he would’ve advised at _all_. But matters seems to have maneuvered themselves around his better judgement. What can he do, with pressure from the Chancellor himself? He may not have been the one to throw in the official acceptance— Ahsoka and Anakin can congratulate themselves for that honour— but he would’ve had to concede eventually anyway. The plea from Senator Amidala had been a subtle touch. Made it personal. He has to hand it to Palpatine, he made it nigh on impossible to refuse.

Satine— shrapnel to the arm. Painful, but hardly lethal. She’d recover. A scar would be the worst of it. 

“Must be a decent hour in Coruscant, if the Chancellor and Padmé called us,” Ahsoka says. “We can probably get Master Yoda and Master Windu, too.” 

“Might as well get this over with,” Obi-Wan mutters. “Ahsoka, prepare the call, please.” 

He hasn’t seen her since Qui-Gon’s funeral. More than a decade. The back of his head tingles. How can so much time have passed? There’s no avoiding her, she’s on the news. Always in her Duchess regalia. He’d known her in wool cloaks, the better to blend in in back-water planets. She won’t be pleased about this. From the Battle of Geneosis, when the Republic was hurtled into war, Satine pronounced the Mandalore’s neutrality. Even before that, she had continued Mandalore’s tradition of independence. 

For a brief moment, he can just see her. Eyes flashing, lips upturned. “The Jedi again, intruding where least wanted.” He can’t believe he’ll get to see her again. The tingle spreads to his cheeks. It’ll be good. No matter the circumstances, even if she’ll be livid, it’s a joy to see her.  

“We’re good to go,” Ahsoka says, pulling Obi-Wan back to where he is. Anakin leans against a wall, foot pressed against it, with a surprisingly neutral expression— this despite the hot waves of anger coming from him. At least he’s masking it.

“Right,” Obi-Wan says. Life-sized versions of Yoda and Windu form over the table. Everyone nods or bows in greeting. “Thank you for coming in so quickly, we know you have your hands full.”

“Always available for updates, we are,” Yoda says. “What news, have you?” 

“A special request from the Chancellor and Senator Amidala,” Obi-Wan says. “He wants us to investigate the recent attack on the Duchess of Mandalore and be her bodyguards.” 

Surprises crosses both their faces. “But why?” Windu asks. 

“That’s what _we_ want to know,” Anakin mutters.

“He said it was the right thing to do,” Ahsoka pipes in. “And he made a good point about how if Mandalore’s ruler goes down, the Seppies might step in before we can.” 

“There’s got to be more to it than that,” Obi-Wan says. 

“Why can’t it just be because he knows we need to help them?” Anakin asks hotly.

“Are you for or against this expedition?” Obi-Wan asks. Anakin falls into a sullen quiet. “Anyway, it just seems odd. Why us? Why not get Senate approval first? Why not go through the Council? There’s just something off about all this.” 

“It’s not as if we can spare you,” Windu agrees. “We’ve received— disturbing footage of General Grievous taking Master Koth hostage.” Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows. If Windu hesitates on the wording, then truly disturbing it must be. 

“Is he okay?” Ahsoka asks. 

“Alive, he is, we think,” Yoda says. “But of the essence, time is.” 

Ahsoka looks torn. Obi-Wan can understand. The pressure to help everyone is great, when your heart is in the right place. 

“Palpatine’s intentions, to know more of, I would like,” Yoda says. 

“Me too,” Windu says. “I think it’s worth looking into. I want to know where this is headed.” 

Anakin almost says something again, but Obi-Wan sees him just narrowing his eyes.

“Then set, it is,” Yoda agrees. “Other Jedi, find we will, to Master Koth go. You three, to Mandalore go. Help the Duchess, our help she needs, she does.”

“Find out what you can of Palpatine’s motivations,” Windu says. 

“We’ll keep you updated,” Obi-Wan says. “Thank you.” 

The call ended, Obi-Wan turns to Ahsoka and Anakin. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do. I don’t think we’ll need— yet— the entire 212th and 501st, so we’ll bring a third of the troopers on active duty with us on a frigate. Once we get to the system, the three of us will go to Sundari to meet with the Duchess and do some reconnaissance to see the scope of what we’re dealing with. Unless you have a better idea, Anakin?” 

“Works for me,” Anakin says under his breath. 

“Then let’s go ahead with that plan. Ahsoka, you can reassign the ship repairs to someone else, prepare an Arc-170— no, it’s too much of a fighter ship, let’s take the _Twilight_ instead. I’ll— I’ll contact Mandalore to inform them of our imminent arrival. We’ll depart in three standard hours.” 

“Got it,” Ahsoka says with a toothy grin. She runs off to get started. 

Anakin’s staring at him. The tension coming from him could bring an entire power generator back to life. “What?” Obi-Wan asks. 

“Got what you wanted, didn’t you,” Anakin says. “You get to go save her.” 

It’s not untrue. It _is_ what he wanted. Still. “You can be kinder than that,” Obi-Wan says gently. “After all we’ve been through, I think I’ve earned at least that.” 

Again, it’s as if he’s said the worst possible thing. Anakin’s eyes widen. “I— I just—“ 

Obi-Wan pats his shoulder. Even to him, it feels brutally cold, given the physical closeness they’ve shared even as recently as this morning. “Come. You’ll be alright. We’ve got a lot to do.” 

Anakin sighs. It’ll just have to do for now.

*

Back in Coruscant, in a grand room draped in dark crimson and lined with golden-brown wood pieces, the setting sun gives everything a warm glow. The Senator’s silk robes take on a particularly elegant shimmer; the pearls in her hair catch the light. She did always have excellent taste in fabrics. Surely it part their mutual cultural heritage of hailing from Naboo; Palpatine can see how they would share similar tastes. But more than that, it matches the fierceness with which she throws herself into her political exploits. She is trouble, Palpatine will grant her that. On the other hand, her head butts into his schemes present such… _interesting_ wrinkles that he can’t truly bring himself to mind. 

Take today, for example. He would have never expected Amidala to march in without an appointment, face somber and hard-set. He’d never meant to send any expeditions to Mandalore. Why bother? But her impassioned plea to keep the insolent Duchess from being wounded further was too intriguing to not indulge. He has the intuition to cast out webs where promise lies; see what catches in his nets. And this has certainly seemed to catch some intriguing bait. 

“Thank you so much for joining me in this request, Chancellor,” Padmé says. “I know sometimes the Jedi tied up in what they can and can’t do, so your support can mean all the difference.” 

“My dear Senator, it is my pleasure,” Palpatine says. His tone is the one he uses for most of his days: kind and elderly, like treasured grandpas he carefully observed in his childhood. It is ridiculously simple to set people at ease with this long-practiced voice. They melt like butter for him. “Not just to help out a fellow head of state who may be in a little over her head, but to help you, who have been my trusted colleague all these years.”

Absentmindedly, Palpatine runs his fingers over his wroshyr wood desk. It is cool to the touch, firm, yet with that give he so enjoys touching. Just one more of the luxuries he promised himself. The palatial items are not what drives him, but they certainly add to the joy of his political machinations. If he is surrounded by velvet, ivory, and all the finest the galaxy has to offer while he concentrates his power, so much the better. 

The Death Watch has done well for itself, once it received the financial infusion from Palpatine’s back channel connections. They’ve gone from a lackadaisical group of violent daydreamers to a military operation capable of the attacks they’d just launched. Palpatine had merely hoped for mayhem in that sector of the galaxy, whether or not the Duchess actually died. The more power structures that disintegrated, the better. That Padmé had a personal connection, which was throwing the boy and his team to be in conflict over this— it is a result far beyond what he’d initially hoped. Such unexpected rewards were one of the boons of his work.

Amidala bows her head. “You are too kind.” 

He’d enjoyed the conversation with the Jedi. So many reactions to tease out; emotions were very much on the rise. Palpatine understands very little about feelings, but he can identify them clearly in others. There was Anakin’s thrill in seeing Padmé, only to be dashed by his desperation over that little Jedi he so keenly calls Master. His relentless obsession for him is almost boring by now; rote. It feels trite to take advantage of it, but what could Palpatine do? The fruit was there for the picking. He must work with the opportunities presented to him.

Far more compelling was Kenobi's prickliness over the Duchess. He can exploit that, certainly. He can tease out this silk thread and connect it to the interlocking web he weaves. Where will it lead? Who knows yet. He has so many possibilities running at all times in the background; he cannot possibly keep track of every detail. It would be too consuming. What matters is the bigger picture: the war, not the battles. Stake the odds so that you win no matter the results. And from all the tension bursting in that short communication, there are bound to be ripple effects. Possibly even entire foundations shattered. Relationships ruined. 

“Not at all,” Palpatine says, still in those dulcet tones. “The Jedi will do good work, I am sure of it.” He smiles in his routine gesture of comfort. “I can’t wait to see it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from The Wallflowers’ “One Headlight.”


	4. line me up in single file with all your grievances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Satine has better things to do than entertain Jedi on a mission, Ahsoka has questions that cannot be easily quelled, and Anakin is still trying to keep himself together.

**** It’s been a long night. Is it exhaustion or hunger that’s making Satine light-headed? A faint crepuscular light makes itself known, but the gathered group does not notice. Artificial lights reflect off the crystal glass table and make long shadows on the wizened Minister’s faces as they murmur and demur. Through the sleep deprivation and lingering effects of shock, Satine’s attention occasionally wavers. The angry throbbing in her right arm brings her back every time. Under the layers of bacta and bandaging, the puncture marks won’t let her forget. Mandalore is in crisis. Mandalore needs her. 

‘Ooooh, Mandalore _needs_ you,’ she hears in her sister’s mocking tones. ‘Ever the martyr. Get over yourself, Satine.’ 

She must be truly tired, if Bo-Katan’s voice is ringing through her head. They haven’t spoken since the uprising. 

Satine straightens her shoulders and pierces her gaze on Ogg, Minister of Peace. Her short blonde hair, usually so tidy, still shows streaks of soot. Cleaning up after the explosion at the plaza yesterday has been the least of their concerns. Her face has grown increasingly red as the discussion continues, shot down from every side but refusing to give ground. However vehemently Satine disagrees with her, she respects Ogg for her determination. “Of course I haven’t forgotten Mandalore’s mandate—” 

“Then why do you insist on breaking it?” Prime Minister Almec counters calmly. Since the attack yesterday, he has kept his head and wits about him, even as everyone else descended into panic. His level-headedness was critical in the immediate aftermath of the bomb. As Satine was whisked away to attend to her injury before bleeding out, Almec took centre stage. He directed the evacuation from the Celebration Memorial Plaza and made live announcements to reassure the Mandalorian population. Satine is grateful. Without a cohesive government, they would be lost. 

“You heard the Death Watch message, we can’t just sit idly by and let them pick us off one by one!“ Ogg presses on. 

Still shaken and woozy from the painkillers, Satine insisted on seeing each and every one of the families of the deceased. One father wept through the entire visit. His daughter had just started at Sundari Lyceum, the beginning of an illustrious career in environmental engineering. She’d been so excited about getting tickets for the very front of the Celebration Event. All Satine could offer him in the face of his staggering loss were tissues and her words of condolence. 

Her own parents will never have the opportunity to weep over her. 

Satine stirs in her seat. “We will never concede on this front, Minister Ogg. We are not introducing lethal weapons to our defence forces.”

Ogg stiffens, her shoulders pressing back. “You would have more Mandalorians die? You would put yourself at risk? You know they’ll come after you again.” 

The attackers, whoever they were, were after her. It haunts Satine. If not for her, those innocent people would still be alive. “We cannot let fear rule us,” Satine says, voice rising. “You know what kills people? Weapons. If we bring them into our system, we are _inviting_ them to strike back! We will descend into warring factions, at each other’s throats, whoever with the vilest artillery the winner!” 

Pinnili, Minister of Culture, drums her thick fingers on the table. The noise echoes through the room. “I don’t think we can discount increasing our safety measures, my Duchess. I believe Minister Ogg has a point. Just because we increase our defences does not _mean_ we will start fighting each other.”

Exhaustion seeps back into Satine’s bones. How can she be the only one with clarity of vision. “Has it not occurred to you,” she says, voice cold and cutting, “that we are being targeted _by_ Mandalorians? To shoot them, we shoot ourselves. It’d be the beginning of centuries of war. I swore a vow when I took office, Minister Ogg: _never again_.” Never again a world that values who stabs the fastest and hardest. Never again a world where lives are lost in a mad lust for power. Never a world where children are robbed of their parents. If her own sister Bo-Katan couldn’t sway her mind, then no one else stood a chance.

The table finally erupts into heated discussions, each Minister vying to speak over the other. Barks of indignation layer over hisses of disapproval. 

Almec leans in towards her; speaks softly to be heard over the pandemonium. “They’ll come around, my Duchess.” 

“I don’t care what they think,” Satine says. She stands up, her glass chair rattling behind her. “Order!” The voices fall silent at her shout. “Are we rational beings, or mere beasts howling at the moon? We have a duty—” The door swings open and in comes her aide Eetu, head tucked into her chest. “I distinctly said no interruptions, Eetu.” 

“There’s a call for you,” Eetu says. Her eyes skirt over all the politicians who look back tired and wary. “I think you’ll want to take it.” 

“Take a message, I’ll listen to it later.” 

To her surprise, Eetu does not budge. “It’s from the Jedi, my Duchess.” 

The Jedi? It can’t be. Satine realizes suddenly how bright the room has become. Morning has come through. Heart in throat, she asks, “Did they give a name?” 

“It’s a Master Kenobi.” 

Obi-Wan. Of course. Who else. Exasperation and joy fill Satine in equal measure. She doesn’t _need_ the Jedi here right now, complicating an already complex internal affair. And she certainly doesn’t need Obi-Wan. She never has. If she knows him, and she _does_ , he will come in here with his Jedi companions and try to insist they know best. They will want to fill Mandalore with their Clones and what have you. It’s hardly the headache she needs when she needs to rally all of Mandalore to  stave off obsessive, paranoid security measures.

None of this makes her heart beat any less fast. 

“Tell him I’ll call back in another hour.” She nods to the Ministers around her. “We still have business to complete.” 

But though they debated for longer than that, no agreement is reached. 

*

The meeting concluded, Satine bursts through the double-doors of the Intergalactic Comm Room. “You are dismissed,” she says to the aides there, who scatter away. She is too hyped up to do this with an audience. 

Her comm call to Obi-Wan goes through immediately. He pops up before her in that horrid blue, so impersonal, so distant. It’s still Obi-Wan, though, just as she remembers him. That wry arch to his eyebrow; that softness in his eyes that comes through even the static lines. Something like ache twists in her heart. Longing. There is so much she wants to tell him. So much she wants to hear from him. It feels impossible to catch up on over decade. Feels like they’ve been robbed of the chance to just talk, and be together. Because this cannot be a social call. 

His hands are folded behind his back. A proper soldier called to duty. “Duchess,” he says. He looks guarded. 

She smiles back at him, allowing her tiredness to show. “Please, Obi-Wan. Have we not been through enough? And we are alone. Call me Satine.” 

Something like relief flickers through his face. Obi-Wan prides himself so fiercely on his ability to keep a neutral expression, but she could always see through him. “Satine.” He says it tenderly, as if cupping a firefly in his hands. Like that last night they saw each other. When she’d let herself cry out his name with all the passion she felt. That same warmth stirs in her again. She knows she’ll feel it the rest of her life, for all the good it’ll do them. “I heard the news. How are you? How’s the situation?” 

Satine unthinkingly touches her arm. “ _I’m_ fine. And Mandalore will be as well.” 

“That’s— good.” Obi-Wan hesitates. This is the part she won’t want to hear. “I’ve been tasked with lending you a hand.” 

Her eye flickers to his white armour. In their days fleeing from insurgents, when they could be attacked without notice, he’d worn only plain robes, as had been the Jedi tradition for centuries. The war really has changed them. However much she loves him, Satine can never forgive him the choice he made. Brutality over rebuilding with her. He’d never yield that miserable lightsaber. 

Satine’s lips curl. “Ah. I suspected as much. Rushing in to be my knight? I assure you, I need no protection.” 

She does not miss how he stands taller, or the stiffness in his polite expression. “And I promise you, I do not think you need any. The request comes from Senator Amidala.” 

“Padmé? Why would she—”Satine shakes her head. “Never mind. I’ll talk to her myself.” She could see her old friend wanting to give her what she herself considered the very best in help. Hadn’t the Jedi saved her planet from the Trade Federation? But Padmé should know better than to assume that her saviours would be of any help to Satine. Should know the monsters she has unleashed at Mandalore’s gates. Would they murder first, ask questions later? Her sister could wind up amongst the dead. “You can call off your team, Obi-Wan. Mandalore won’t allow any Jedi or Clones to enter our space.” 

Obi-Wan grimaces. “I thought you might say that. Just— let us land, Satine. Hear us out. We won’t interfere anywhere you do not wish us to.” 

Satine snorts. “Until you decide that it’s for the greater good. No, I’ve seen how you Jedi play. One moment you’ll be here to wave lightsabers at shadows, the next, you’ll be ordering thousands of troops to stake the entire city to chase equally catchable enemies. Whatever our past together, Obi-Wan, I won’t have it. I simply won’t.” 

“It’s the Death Watch, is it not? That has launched this attack upon you.” 

“What of it?” 

“They are Mandalorian, from what I understand. As Duchess, will you be at liberty to order a complete investigation? Or will you have to follow the law and standard procedure?” 

It is so late. She is so tired. The pins in her hair pull taunt at her forehead. Her headache pulses in time with the punctures in her arm. “Are you implying the Jedi can search in darker corners than I can as Duchess?” 

“Indeed, Satine. We wouldn’t be held back by political ties or regulations.” For the first time in the conversation, Obi-Wan smiles. “We Jedi— how did you put it?— can scurry in holes only cockroaches would deign enter.” 

Perhaps it is the exhaustion, but the offer is tempting. Despite her pride, despite his commitment to violence, Satine trusts Obi-Wan with her life. 

But can she trust Mandalore’s fate to him? 

“There can be no violence,” she demands.

“I shall inform the others.” 

“And absolutely no murder. Even if you find the ones who planted yesterday’s bomb, they must be brought to justice through fair trial.” 

“I would offer our help under no other terms.” 

“Fine.” She huffs out. “I’ll hear you out. Only you and any other Jedi. No Clones.”

“None shall come into Mandalorian space without your express permission.” 

“When you arrive, you come see me.” 

The side of Obi-Wan’s mouth twitches. “Of course, Satine. I would have it no other way. We should be there in a couple of standard days.” 

“Very well. And one last thing, Obi-Wan.” He awaits her final pronouncement with baited breath. He did always love to be objective and above it all. It’s why she’s always enjoyed unsettling him so. “It will be good to see you.” 

Blushes never transmit through the blue static, but she likes to imagine he is doing so. “And you, Satine.” 

Through the grief, fatigue, and uncertainty for her people’s future, Satine can take solace in that. It will be good to see each other. 

* 

“You can be kinder than that,” Obi-Wan said. What’s that even supposed to _mean_? 

The words rattle in Anakin’s head as he storms through the _Luminary_ ’s hallways, his steps echoing on the durasteel. He knows he isn’t much of a Jedi. His Shien and Djem So is flawless; he’s mastered countless other lightsaber forms. The Force sings around him, the instrument he plays to perfection. He can float anything he cares to, shut organic windpipes, propel himself through the air. There isn’t a trick through the Force he can’t perform. “Those are just trappings,” Obi-Wan would say. “Not the true mark of a Jedi.” _Kindness_. What is Obi-Wan trying to tell him? That he lacks _compassion_? But compassion is love, and Anakin _flows_ with that. So much that he must hide his true nature. It just doesn’t make sense.

He senses someone following in his wake. “Ahsoka.” 

“Hey, Skyguy.” She skitters to a halt from Anakin’s sudden stop.

“Do you need something?” 

“Oh.” Her chin edges back a bit. “Just wondering. For the Delta-7, you think I could substitute inorganic coolant with silicate? We’re running low, it’d just be easier.” 

This is not even remotely why she’s been on his heels. She’s too fidgety to care about starship fluids. “You know the answer to that, Snips. Over my dead body.” 

“Right! Right.” She leans her weight from one foot to another. 

But she’s lost her window of opportunity for now. “Rex!” Anakin shouts.

“There you are, Sir.” Rex stands at attention.

“You know better than that, Rex. At ease.”

“Yes, sir.” Rex relaxes marginally. Anakin invited him once to drinks in a Outer Rim bar and, when he’d been turned down, asked why Rex never lets himself be off the clock. “The war doesn’t stop because I do,” he’d said. Rex probably had a point about that, because not five minutes later there’d been an explosion and a plethora of droidekas. “I heard about our newest mission. Mandalore?”

“Apparently.” 

“Cody said only a third of our active duty troopers.” 

“Yeah, I think that’s what Obi-Wan said.” 

“Any third in particular, Sir?” 

“I’ll leave the details to you, Rex. Anyone who wants to come, first.”

“Understood. And, Sir?” 

“Yeah?” 

Rex is silent for a moment, considering. Then, “Just remember, Sir, we’ve got your back.” 

His soldier looks at him unwaveringly as the words sink in. _We’ve got your back_. Rex isn’t exactly the chattiest or the mushiest clone, but Anakin gets what he’s saying. He’s concerned for him.  Anakin’s genuinely touched. The image of his legion trying to take down Obi-Wan for berating him was… quite the image. Enough to lessen the heat of the words still branding in his brain. _You can be kinder than that_. 

He’s _plenty_ kind. Look at how loyal the 501st is to him. They understand him. They don’t expect anything from him except to lead them in battle and stand true to them. What general is kinder to his men than Anakin? The 501st is downright known for their tight connection. They’d die for him. Not that Anakin would want them to, but they would.

“That goes for your too, Ahsoka,” Rex says mock-seriously to Ahsoka, who grins at him.

She finger-guns at him. “Not if I’ve got yours first!” 

Rex grins back, but moulds his expression into a neutral one when Anakin speaks. “Thanks, Rex. You’re a real friend.” 

“Say nothing of it, Sir.”

Ahsoka’s smile, too, quickly faces once Rex is gone. “Snips,” Anakin says. “Next question.” 

“….Should I get R2 to download blueprints for the Sundari Palace?” 

“Of course, why’re you even asking.” Anakin crosses his arms. He’s being far more brusque than he’d be with any other Jedi Padawan, but this is Ahsoka. This is how they roll. “And _out_ with it. Why’re you here?” 

Her montrals droop as she looks down. “Are we doing the right thing?” 

“What do you mean?” 

She looks up with wide eyes. “Master Koth is in terrible danger,” she speaks in a rush, her fists coming up. “Master Windu said so! And Senator Amidala thinks Duchess Satine is too, but Master Obi-Wan doesn’t even think she wants us there. And—” Her sudden flow crashes as quickly as it’d started. 

Here it is. They’re getting close to the issue at hand. “And?” Anakin prompts, this time gently. 

Ahsoka glances around, but the hallways is empty but for them. She bites at a finger. A nervous habit she really has to outgrow. “I can’t stop thinking about Barriss. I don’t even know if she’s better from that zombie attack. I mean, I know she’s not possessed anymore, but I don’t know if she’s still in recovery, or if she’s all the way better, and she probably is, but I don’t _know_ , and I can’t stop wondering.” She looks completely and utterly miserable. 

Kindness. Thinking of others. 

Obi-Wan was thinking of that Duchess. There’s pain in that. Missing and longing. The same way Anakin misses Obi-Wan, Padmé, and even Ahsoka. Suddenly, Anakin’s guts twist up. He _understands_ in a visceral way: Obi-Wan is hurt. Anakin doesn’t _want_ him to be hurt. In any way, for any reason. Especially not over someone else. If Anakin can help with that, then, he really has to step it up. 

Anakin places his hands on Ahsoka’s shoulders. “It’s okay to be confused. That’s why we have leaders like Master Windu and Yoda to help make our decisions. You heard them, they’ll find someone else to help Master Koth.” 

“But—”

“We have to trust them, Ahsoka.” 

“ _You_ don’t even like this mission!” She practically spits, face animated. “I heard you back there! I can feel your energy from _here_! You don’t want to go.” 

She wears her feelings so close to her sleeve. Is this what Obi-Wan means, when he says that Anakin is showing too much? 

Anakin twists the side of his mouth. At least they can be honest with each other. There’s not a lot he’s got to hide from Ahsoka. “You’re right, this isn’t my first pick. But I trust Padmé, and this way we can prove to the Council that the Chancellor has no ulterior motives.” 

The truth seems to relieve the tension in Ahsoka. “I guess….” 

“As for Barriss, it’s okay that you’re thinking of her.” 

Ahsoka snorts. “Of course you’d say that.” 

“Hey.” Anakin takes his hands off her, but it’s natural. Comfortable. They’re not quite smiling at each other, but he can read the trust in her. “I have feelings too, all right?” It’d be beyond inappropriate to tell her about either his marriage or his… connection with Obi-Wan, but he really kinda wishes he could. Just so she could see how alone she didn’t have to be as a Jedi. There are other ways. “You can miss her. Would it help if you knew how she was?” 

There’s relief in her expression. “Yeah, but—”

“There’s nothing wrong in comming her. Find out how she is, put your mind at ease. She’s probably fine.” _Now_ she looks like she’s judging him. “What?” 

“Nothing. I guess I just didn’t expect you to give such good advice.” 

Ah, this is the Ahsoka he knows. Back to her snark. It’s good to see. “Is that an insult or a compliment, Snips?” 

Her fangs show. “Take the compliment, Skyguy.”  

They begin to walk, side by side. Anakin realizes he no longer feels the urge to stomp all over the _Luminary_. “Thanks, Ahsoka.” 

"You’re welcome.” 

“I’m not talking about the compliment.” 

“I know.” 

Whatever she thinks he’s thanking him for, Anakin’s willing to let her take the credit. She’s earned it. Somehow, putting her at ease has made him realize what he’s got to do. 

He’s just got to find Obi-Wan.

*

The door to the private room hisses as Anakin enters the code. His Master is nowhere in sight, but he hears water spraying from the fresher. Senses Obi-Wan close. So close. Does he even know he’s here? Should he say anything? Maybe just join him in the fresher like nothing’s happened? Like it was any other night since they started sleeping together. Up until now, if they’ve been in the same ship or city, they would just come into each other’s rooms. No questions asked. Because it was clear they both wanted to be together.

Leaving isn’t an option. Anakin can’t go back to sleeping alone, not when Obi-Wan is _here_. Not without a fight. It’s still not true, but it’s also not wrong: Obi-Wan is his. 

Obi-Wan saves him from the indecision of how to announce his presence by coming in from the fresher. He’s topless, just in loose cotton pants tied at the waist. His hair is damp, curlicues sticking to his forehead. If Anakin had no idea what to say a few seconds before, now he’s truly at a loss. All he can do is stare. Gaze at the creases in Obi-Wan’s forehead, deep from worry. Feel the concern and regret— light and soft, but still present— emanating from him in the Force. Anakin was right. He really is hurting. Over him? Over her? 

The intimacy of stumbling into Obi-Wan’s quarters is suddenly too great. It doesn’t matter that they’ve bared far more flesh than this to each other. He’s stepped into a private grief.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan says. His voice is low. Anakin aches at the sound of it. He wants to hear more. “I’m not sure this is a good idea.”

Here it is. Now or never. Anakin shakes his head, then juts out his chin. “Forgive me, Obi-Wan. I’m sorry. You were right, I should’ve been kinder.” He’d thought it’d be harder to say these words, and it _is_ , he has to grind them out, but it’s really not that bad. At least they make it out of his mouth, and the more that comes out, the easier it gets. It’s hardly his first apology to Obi-Wan. He can’t imagine that it’ll be the last. At least the pressure in his head is going down. The angry words of _kindness, be kind_ stop rattling around. “And I should’ve known to give you space.” 

Anakin can see Obi-Wan’s muscles relaxing. It’s working. He’s doing good. It was right to apologize. “I appreciate that, Anakin.” Obi-Wan wipes away at the hair clinging to his face. “I—”

It’s not an invitation. Obi-Wan thinks he should go. “Let me stay,” Anakin says. Winces. He sounds so… _petulant._ He shifts tone, trying for calm. “I’ll give you space. We don’t have to do anything.” He _sees_ the hesitation in Obi-Wan. Wants to scream, bang his fist against the wall. But screaming and hitting won’t win Obi-Wan over. He expects better. Anakin can do that. He just has to remember. “Please.”

They look at each a long moment. The steam from the fresher dissipates into the room, bringing it with the scent of soap. Anakin tries to send vibes of good will and acceptance in the Force. He’s not here for anything. He’s not here to make demands. He just wants to be with him. He watches as Obi-Wan’s hesitation yields to affection. “Very well. I _would_ enjoy your company.” 

He could leap from joy. He tries to hide it. “All right.” He removes his armour, more delicately than last night when he’d flung it to the floor, and hangs it on the hook against the wall. Takes off his outer garments until he matches Obi-Wan in just wearing tunic pants and folds his clothes. It’s what Obi-Wan would like. He’s such a stickler for neat and tidy. Anakin feels Obi-Wan watching, wordless, from the bed. Tries to act natural. Why is it so hard to just be himself around Obi-Wan these days? He’s always putting up an act. It’s exhausting.

When Anakin comes to lie down, Obi-Wan arches an eyebrow. “You’re not going to use the fresher?” 

It’s an old joke between them. “You like me like this,” Anakin says. The teasing doesn’t come quite as easily as it has in the past, but it’s nice to try anyway. “Natural.” 

Obi-Wan harrumphs and turns his back to Anakin as he settles under the blanket. “There’s no accounting for taste, I suppose,” not contradicting Anakin. 

The sheets are coarse, the mattress rough. He’s used piles of leaves more comfortable than this pillow. Nothing like what he enjoys at Padmé’s. It’s even a bit rougher than the one in his room at the Temple, not that he ever sleeps there. But Obi-Wan is warm, and he smells clean, and he doesn’t seem to mind when Anakin slips an arm over his side. Anakin closes his eyes. Breathes in the scent of Obi-Wan’s hair. Shifts his legs so that they’re tucked in behind Obi-Wan’s. 

He could almost pretend. That it’s like any other night. That he doesn’t already _know_. Anakin shifts again, restless. But he _does_. He doesn’t know enough. Who is she? 

“You can ask,” Obi-Wan says. He sounds peaceful. “I’m ready.” 

Something like lead sinks in Anakin. He doesn’t know that _he’ll_ ever be ready. But he can’t not ask, either, no more than he could keep from throttling into hyperdrive on a faulty drive. He has no setting but _fast, faster_. Even if he’s headed straight for a crash. “You talked to the Duchess?” 

“Yes. She’s not thrilled about us coming, but she’s willing to give us a chance.” 

That’s not… really what he’s asking. But the words don’t come. He can’t bear to ask. No matter what the answer is, it’s going to destroy him. 

Obi-Wan’s hand finds his. Laces their fingers together. “Just try,” he says, as if he can read his mind. 

Anakin grips his hand. Buries his face into Obi-Wan’s back. He might as well get this over with. Get ready for a rough landing. “How long have you loved her?” 

The answer doesn’t come right away. Anakin measures the time in breaths. In, out. In, again. He feels against his chest how deeply Obi-Wan breathes in. Forget landing. Anakin is free falling, no ground in sight. Then: “From the moment I saw her, when I was seventeen.” 

The shattering is instant. Obi-Wan _does_ love her. He doesn’t love him. How can he love someone _else_ and not— Anakin pulls back his hand, bites his fist. It’s no use. The tears come, hot and shameful, as do the tremors. How long have he and Obi-Wan been together? Not even romantically. Over a decade. They’ve been side by side since almost as long as Anakin can remember, and he’s loved him almost the whole time. What a fool he’s been, to think just because they’d— it’s meant nothing— less than nothing— Obi-Wan’s been capable of love _all_ this time. It’s just that Anakin wasn’t worthy of it. 

Anakin curls up, unable to stop himself. Closes in on himself. He can’t— no screaming. No yelling. Never in front of Obi-Wan. 

*

This is going about as well as Obi-Wan would’ve expected. He feels for Anakin, he does. Whatever their training, the heart will want what it wants. Obi-Wan knows that well enough— his own longs for Satine even without having seen her all this time. Whatever hopes have been dashed for Anakin, Obi-Wan listens to the quiet sobs behind him. Stays still and implacable. He has done no wrong. He’s not even doing anything Anakin hasn’t, keeping on more than one lover. He’s never objected to Padmé’s place in Anakin’s life. And this is good for Anakin. Better he face bitter disappointment— and overcome. 

The shaking eventually subsides, as does the crying. Anakin’s breaths are shaky, damp behind his ear. Something tugs at Obi-Wan’s heart. He does regret having caused him pain. If he could’ve spared him this, he would’ve. But how can he shield Anakin from a life of emotions? He can’t. He can only equip him to deal with them. 

Maybe all this was a mistake. Maybe he should’ve never accepted that first kiss from Anakin. 

“And you love her still?” Anakin’s voice is raw. But not teary. Good. He’s working on controlling himself. 

It’s a deeply personal question. But he can’t play the hypocrite now. Obi-Wan can control himself as well. “I suspect I always will.” 

The sniffle behind him is loud and undignified. Obi-Wan shows Anakin respect by not pointing it out. “It— it must’ve been hard for you. To hear that she was hurt. And having to see her when she doesn’t want to.”

That— the most he’d been hoping for Anakin was for him to remember himself and get a grip on his own reaction. But that he’s remembering to _sympathize_ — Pulse racing with surprise, Obi-Wan turns to face Anakin. He can’t see him in the dark, just feel his emanating warmth. “Yes, I—” The vulnerability doesn’t come naturally, but it’s worth rewarding Anakin’s with his own. “It truly has been.” Fingertips brush his jawline. Obi-Wan leans into the touch. It does him surprising good, like a long stretch after a bad sleep. “I didn’t expect you to be so understanding.” 

Anakin just touches him, more and more. His cheeks. His throat. Obi-Wan’s mouth parts. The yearning he’s held off for Satine reverberates within him, tangling in a complicated way with Anakin’s thoughtfulness. Obi-Wan wants— he wants the intimacy. He _wants_ to touch Anakin. Runs his hand down Anakin’s shoulders, his back. Anakin’s muscles flex against his fingers. He’s hot and soft and it’s a comfort to be flesh to flesh. Suddenly they’re hugging, and he’s not sure who initiates it, but now they’re kissing, open-mouthed, tongue-to-tongue, Anakin whimpering. A pleasant rush fills Obi-Wan’s mind. It just feels good. Right. He rolls over, pinning Anakin. He breaks their kiss long enough to ask, “Is this all right?” Alright to kiss when they’re both hurting? When Anakin is probably still confused?

“Don’t stop,” Anakin pleads. 

Obi-wan traces Anakin’s tear tracks. They’re still so damp. He should say something. But what? What would help Anakin, not hinder him? “You know how much I care for you, don’t you?” He can’t make the kind of promise Anakin would likely want. He can’t promise eternal devotion or love. Eternal is a imaginary concept, and an undesirable one at that. Change is inevitable. But he can remind Anakin that he has all that he _can_ give him— this moment’s companionship. 

He feels with his hands Anakin’s nod. “I know,” he whispers. 

*

Anakin _does_ know. With Obi-Wan’s weight on him, his hands around his face, he can feel the strength of his care. He kisses him again, pulling Obi-Wan to be flush against him. He’s done with words. The words hurt. Love, care. Satine. It’s all pain, meaningless. It’s nothing compared to the scrape of Obi-Wan’s beard at the corners of his lips. To the heat of his body, adding to the temperature of Anakin’s own. He feels a furnace, burning with hope and anger and fear and sheer, cutting love. He can’t say ‘I love you.’ He can’t ask to hear it back. But he can assuage the horrible grief in him with Obi-Wan’s caresses. He can express all that he feels with his arms, hugging him close; with his mouth, kissing him with all that he has. He will hold on right. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow— but if he clings on enough, maybe one day. Maybe Obi-Wan will come to recognize that he’s his. 

They kiss a long time, with soft touches, saying no more. 

*

Ahsoka sits cross-legged on her hard bed. She can’t believe she’s taking Anakin’s advice on a relationship matter. But he’s not wrong. She can just find out how Barriss is. No harm there. It doesn’t mean that she’s overly attached. Friends care about friends. And Ahsoka’s always cared for her friends, a lot. That means wanting them to be well. She taps the code into her wrist-comm and waits, heart in throat. Tries to take deep breaths. There’s no reason to be anxious. If Barriss doesn’t answer, she’s probably just asleep or in the middle of a mission. It doesn’t mean she’s lost her mind again.

Barriss’ form materializes, semi-transparent but bright in the darkness of the room. Ahsoka had left the lights off to better see her. “Ahsoka?” Barriss asks. “Is something the matter? Do you need help?” 

Ahsoka wants to laugh for joy. There she is, diamond freckles on her cheeks, eyebrows knitted in concern. She _is_ okay. She’s out of the med bay. It’s weird to just see and hear her, and not smell her scent, or that of her cotton cloak. But this is better than nothing. Far better. Ahsoka shakes the worry out of her shoulders and pulls up her knees, bringing her wrist, and therefore Barriss, closer into view. “No, nothing’s wrong. Everything’s great. I just wanted to see how your recovery was coming along.”

“Ah.” Barriss presses a hand to her mouth. “I’m so sorry about what happened, Ahsoka. I should’ve never let those worms take control of me.” 

“No, it’s okay! You couldn’t help it!” Ahsoka’s smile reaches her eyes. “I’m just glad you got better.” 

“By the grace of your help and the healers,” she says humbly. 

Ahsoka tilts her head. There’s something else that’s been bothering her. Anakin had implied she’d done the right thing, taking that risk and not killing Barriss, even when she’d been threat to everyone on board. She’s certain that if she asked a dozen Jedi, she’d get a dozen different answers. She doesn’t _want_ a range of options. Ahsoka just wants to know the right path. What does Barriss, her fellow Padawan and friend, think? Somehow, her opinion seems more important than any other Jedi Master’s. “Barriss?” 

“Yes?” 

“What if— on the ship, if it’d been me. If the zombie worms had gotten me. What would’ve you done?”

Barriss holds her hands together, interlacing her fingers. “Please don’t ask me that, Ahsoka.” 

Ahsoka shifts to sit on her haunches. Maybe Barriss is like her. Would’ve prioritized a friend’s life. “You can tell me anything, Barriss.” 

Her eyes close. “I wouldn’t have made the same choice as you.” 

“Oh.” Ahsoka falls back against the bunk wall. “Of course,” she says quickly. “The right thing. You’d save everyone else.” 

“Please understand, Ahsoka. No one’s life is worth thousands—”

“Of course I understand!” Ahsoka injects cheer into her voice. “We are Jedi, after all. Many before one.” Why is she— why does it _hurt_? 

“Ahsoka—”

“Anyway, I’m glad you’re okay,” Ahsoka says. She can’t look at Barriss right now. It just makes it worse. “Good luck on your next mission! May the Force be with you!” 

With a jab, the call is cut, and she collapses on to the bed, hugging her knees and staring into the dark. 

She _is_ Anakin’s Padawan, too-strong attachments and all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Tori Amos’ “Pandora’s Aquarium.”


	5. see you shine with every possible radiance

The _Twilight_ gives that weird little rumble as they pull back in from hyperspace. Ahsoka feels the vibrations through the threadbare leather co-pilot seat, just this side of uncomfortable. “I thought you said you were gonna fix that.” 

“Haven’t found the right piece yet,” Anakin says. “It’s not like they make type-Z3 stabilizers anymore. And it’s just noisy, not a problem.” Anakin gives the dashboard a fond little pat.

“Why’re we taking this old heap, anyway?” Ahsoka asks, tilting her head back to look at Obi-Wan. “I thought the Mandalorians put a lot of value in presentation and diplomacy.” If ships were statements, the _Twilight_ was one about how Anakin was overly attached to outdated technology only he could maintain. She’s pretty sure that’s not the angle they’re aiming for. 

Obi-Wan gives a one-sided shrug. “It was the ship with the fewest obvious weapons on it. It seemed tactless to enter a pacifist planet with our cannons out, as it were. Plus, it never hurts to come in an unassuming ship.” 

“Let them underestimate you,” Anakin says, reciting an oft-repeated piece of wisdom. Whatever problems they’d been having, the two of them seem to have figured it out. Ahsoka’s glad. It’d be seriously awkward if they still weren’t talking to each other. 

“Of course, we should be careful not to let them underestimate us too much,” Obi-Wan says lightly. But if he was expecting more banter to follow, his words sink like a stone. Anakin scowls; Ahsoka cringes. Oh boy. Not all the way better, then. 

Plasma sparks streak bright and ephemeral across the windshield as the _Twilight_ enters Sundari’s atmosphere. Blinding reds and oranges and yellows and blues fill her vision. It doesn’t matter how many times Ahsoka witnesses the descent on to a new planet— the beauty and wonder steal her breath every time. 

Then, suddenly, she remembers: Barriss would’ve killed her. _Will_ kill her if she becomes a liability. 

Ahsoka clenches the panel edge so hard her palm smarts. Barriss isn’t _wrong_. The life of many over one. Ahsoka knows this. She knows her life isn’t more valuable than anyone else’s. Even if she is Barriss’ friend. Even if she _did_ save her. 

Anakin breaks through her thoughts. “Could really use your focus on calibrating the propulsion, Ahsoka!” 

“Aye, aye, Captain,” she mutters, but she appreciates the distraction. They work a few minutes until they’ve broken through the atmosphere and now they’re just descending towards the ground. A vast horizon of colourless sand spreads out beyond them. It isn’t even grey or brown, just… lifeless. A relic from the Mandalorian Civil Wars when bioweapons had wiped most life from off the surface. That much Ahsoka remembered from her history classes. Mandalore’s progress on the long-term terraforming had been on the HNN all the time. Seeing it in person instead of a screen was so different— there was a muted starkness to the landscape that chills her to the bones. “You ever been to Mandalore before, Master?” 

“Never.”

Usually Anakin enjoys the adventures too. “It’s my first time too,” she says. “Master Obi-Wan’s been here before, right?”

“Ask him.” 

“A long time ago,” Obi-Wan supplies from the back. “Right at the end of the Civil War. They had only just started building the biodomes and bringing the refugees back to Sundari.” His gaze is more distant than just the desert before them. “Truly, it was a bit of a mess.” 

“You mean, it was a huge disaster,” Ahsoka says. 

There is a melancholy to his expression that Ahsoka immediately regrets having provoked. “That’s accurate, yes.” 

“Focus, Ahsoka,” Anakin cuts in. 

Ahsoka can read between the lines there too. He’s done listening to this conversation. “All right, all right.”

This mission is going to be _so_ much fun. 

*

A black dome looms in the distance. Sundari, the capital, where the vast majority of the population now resides. As they approach, Ahsoka comms to announce their arrival; a hatch opens at the top to allow them in. It’s like flying into another planet altogether. The light is softer, somehow, like early morning spring on Coruscant instead of the relentless Geonesian summer sun outside. They lower the ship into blocks and blocks of buildings, covered in greenery and beautiful, glittering glass. Clear geometric paths divide the city into navigable paths. Even without the ship’s navigational systems, it’d have been a cinch to find the loading dock.

“So much for the disaster,” Ahsoka says. She’s rarely seen a city this organized and… well, prosperous. After all her stints on planets to save them from the Seppies, it’s a bit shocking to see one _not_ torn apart by droids and laser-bolts. 

There’s a note to Obi-Wan’s Force energy that she can’t quite pin down. Wistfulness? Regret? Pleasure? It’s complicated and layered. “They’ve put in a lot of work since the War.” 

Ahsoka would love to know more. How does Obi-Wan know the Duchess? What work did they put in? Why didn’t the Jedi help after the Civil War? But Anakin’s increasing sullenness makes her decide to ask later. 

Someone Ahsoka assumes is a Palace Guard meets them at the landing dock. They board a speeder that flies them between the blocks of cells. Ahsoka’s montrals whip in the wind. The steel handlebars are cool and hard on her hands as she grasps them. She can smell the greenery, something like zha-raratha vines, pungent and strangely fresh for all that they’re trapped in this artificial dome. This. This right here, is that part that she loves the most about being a Jedi. Seeing new places, learning more about this galaxy and all its beings, and helping— 

Barriss would kill her. Maybe other friends too. Like Master Obi-Wan. Or Plo Koon. If they had to. If she lost her mind, if she were a danger. 

The cold gripping her grows. She tries to shake the thought out. Her montral strikes Anakin by accident, who looks back with a frown. “What?” 

Anakin wouldn’t. Somehow, she knows this with startling clarity. It wouldn’t matter what she became or what she’d done. Temperamental, moody Anakin would move time and space before he laid a finger on her. And it shouldn’t, but this thought brings her comfort. “Just making sure you’re awake up there.”

He doesn’t even pretend to know what she’s talking about. “Weirdo,” he says, facing forward again. And in that moment, she’s truly grateful for him. She’s not alone. 

*

Obi-Wan has seen his share of palaces; Sundari’s is grander than any he’s known. It doesn’t have the quiet, traditional elegant of Theed’s, or the imperial stateliness of the Coruscant Senate. Rather, the steel and crystal and glass radiate warmth; power; technology. He sees Satine’s prints all over the architecture. Grand and ruthlessly efficient. Lights turn on as they make their way through the high-ceilinged hallways; the air is the perfect temperature, not too warm or too cold. Though the glass beneath them gleams bright, it is so soft their steps make nary a sound. 

None of this was here ten years ago. Obi-Wan would know; the entire planet had been rendered dust. He remembers flying over the ruins in a Mandalorian shuttle. He’d watched Satine far more than the barren waste below. She’d been pale witnessing what had become of Sundari in her year away. But even as grey as the sand, there was no mistaking her determination. She was back and she was going to make it count. 

Ten years to rebuild from nothing. 

He could’ve been here by her side. 

Obi-Wan glances to Anakin, the product of his last decade of work. Strong, compassionate, and competent, if he’ll let himself remember that for five minutes at a stretch. Right next to him is Ahsoka, the continuation of his life’s achievements. She’s curious and bright and has so much potential. He cannot regret his choices. How can he? He hasn’t rehomed an entire culture, but he’s taught his principles; passed on everything that he knows. If he’s done his part right, they’ll keep that knowledge going, generation after generation. He is a Jedi and proud of it. Obi-Wan knows no other way.

It’s still hard not to think of what might have been in these sun-radiant hallways. 

They’re asked to wait before a ceiling-wide set of double doors. Ahsoka occupies herself by watching the traffic outside the window, hands held behind her back. Obi-Wan senses her turmoil. Whatever’s on her mind, she’s mature enough that she’ll find counsel when she’s ready. Or, if she takes her Master’s example and keeps it in for too long— well, he’ll encourage Anakin to check in with her. 

Speaking of keeping things in. Anakin’s in a corner, arms crossed. After last night, Obi-Wan thought perhaps he’d moved past his jealousies. Maybe it’s not as easy as just realizing sympathy. “You needn’t come,” Obi-Wan says in a low voice. “If you need to sit this one out.” 

Anakin looks at him like he’s sprouted lekku. “I never call it quits on a mission.” 

“There’s no shame in recognizing when a task is too great a challenge.” 

Now he just looks insulted. “I thought you said there was nothing we couldn’t do, so long as we’re together,” Anakin says, voice rising. 

“Yes, but—” 

“I’m not leaving you or Ahsoka alone. End of story.” 

Obi-Wan’s run into that stubborn countenance often enough to know just how hard he’d have to put his foot down to change Anakin’s mind. He cedes this argument. Anakin’s come far enough to know his own limits and abilities. If he wants to stick out what’s going to be emotionally excruciating even after being offered a chance to leave, that’s his choice to make. 

“The Duchess is ready to see you,” the guard accompanying them declares. 

“Yeah, yeah, she’s important, we get it,” Anakin says under his breath. Obi-Wan pretends not to notice Ahsoka elbowing him in the ribs. 

Obi-Wan takes a deep breath and leads their party into the throne room. 

Satine sits high above, chin tilted up and looking down at them. She is, as ever, beautiful. More beautiful than any of the splendours Obi-Wan has seen in this palace. Her hair is up in a complicated weave that surely was fastened by more than one handmaid. Her robes are the traditional midnight blue Mandalorian grieving— the same colour as when he’d first met her, her eyes filled with incandescent rage. And rightfully so; her parents had just been brutally murdered and her life was in danger. 

But when their eyes meet now, she is assured. The world pauses for a beat. Does she feel it too? 

“General Kenobi,” she drawls. “You’ve risen in rank since we last met.” 

Obi-Wan hides a flinch. She can be so razor-edged. He hears every drop of judgement in her voice. “You are kind to have kept abreast of my career, Duchess.” 

She sweeps up to her feet. “When you come thundering into my Palace, I have no choice but to update myself on your affairs.” Her somber skirts float around her as she descends the stairs. “Introduce me to those you have brought with you.” Her eyes scan Ahsoka and Anakin quickly, appraising them. Obi-Wan feels a flicker of pride. He cannot claim full credit, but he has done his best to guide them.

“This is General Anakin Skywalker, and his Padawan Ahsoka Tano.” 

They both bow, Ahsoka at a greater angle than Anakin. “It is our pleasure to meet you,” Ahsoka says. She gives a little smile. 

“Likewise,” Anakin says with less than complete enthusiasm. 

“I’m sure the pleasure is mine,” Satine says with just about as much reservation. 

Well, at least no one’s murdered anyone yet. 

Dozens of people line the walls of the room. They wear the same midnight blue robes as Satine, expensive starch-stiff Mandalorian linen. Obi-Wan senses their suspicion and fear like he’s surrounded by a pack of gutkurrs. Is their resentment borne from a mistrust of the unknown or are they hiding something? He’s read the reports Palpatine forwarded them. The way the bomb was set up at the ceremony, he suspects it was an inside job. Is it one of these politicians? 

“Thank you for coming,” a man steps out of the formation. His hair and beard are mixed white and silver; his eyes shine a sharp purple. “We can use all the help we can get in this time of tragedy.” 

“We are here to serve,” Obi-Wan says. “And if I remember correctly, you are Prime Minister Almec?” 

“You’ve done your homework,” he says kindly— the same way Palpatine would, with a touch of too much genuineness. “As I could expect from the Jedi.” 

“Not to be rude,” Anakin cuts in rudely, perhaps fearing that they were about to be introduced to each and every person in the room and about to burst out of his skin from restlessness. “But what’s the plan here? Where do we start finding this Death Watch?” He all but smacks a fist into his palm. Obi-Wan certainly wishes he could apply his own palm to his forehead. Satine’s disdain is an icy pulse in the Force. Anakin holds firm, meeting her gaze head-on. 

“I think what my Master is getting at,” Ahsoka says, practically throwing herself between Satine and Anakin, “is that time is of the essence, and that we should take quick action.”  

Satine studies Ahsoka for a moment, then strides to her. Lifts her chin with her fingers. Ahsoka, surprised, blinks her eyes wide; hands twitch instinctively at her twin sabres. 

“Duchess—” Obi-Wan starts, holding a hand forward, if only to prevent Anakin from igniting his lightsaber then and there. 

“I forget how young they start soldiers,” Satine murmurs. “You’re but a child.” 

Anger flashes across Ahsoka’s face. “I’m no youngling!” 

“No,” Satine says with a touch of sadness, releasing Ahsoka from her touch. Ahsoka stumbles back a couple of steps. “I imagine you’ve aged before your time. Very well. Padawan Tano, was it? I hear what you’re saying.” Her quick glance at Anakin spoke volumes about what she thought of what _he’d_ been saying. “You’re the ones who came here. Tell me what you propose.” 

“Well,” Obi-Wan says, scanning the room. Everyone leans in to listen. He wants out of this room, away from all the prying ears and frankly combustion for Anakin’s fuel. “Discretion being the better part of valour, should we perhaps discuss this in private?” 

“There is nothing I would not trust with this audience,” Satine says. 

Normally Obi-Wan would press. Surely she can’t have vetted _every_ person in this room. If it’s an inside job, someone here’s in on it. Wouldn’t make sense to share the plan with the enemy. But even if it’s been a third of a lifetime since they’ve met, he can read her expression: trust me. And he does. Obi-Wan plays along with her game, whatever it is. “If you say so, my Lady. We’d start with an investigation. We’ll begin in Sundari, of course, and then move to other parts of Mandalore that have any reports of Death Watch activity.” 

“Minister Ogg, kindly share any and all reports with the Jedi regarding the Death Watch.” 

“Right away, Duchess.” 

“That’s it? We’re going to read reports and go for walks in the city?” Anakin asks. 

“Well, we’re supposed to act as bodyguard to the Duchess, too,” Ahsoka says.

Obi-Wan’s given this a fair amount of thought. He’s the one most familiar with Mandalorian culture and politics. He’ll have the best sense of where to probe. As much as he’d like the excuse to stay by Satine’s side again, he can help best with the investigation. Ahsoka’s experienced enough as a warrior to sense imminent danger and plenty skilled to fight off any attack. Satine will be safe with her. “Yes, and—” 

“I’ll do it,” Anakin says loudly. “I’ll be the Duchess’ bodyguard.” 

The silence that spills across the room is stickier than Bantha spit. “Have you any experience?” Satine asks. It’s almost polite.

“I’ve guarded many,” Anakin says. He is firmer and calmer than Obi-Wan would’ve expected. “Including your friend, Senator Amidala. They’ve all lived to the tale.”

Satine looks to Obi-Wan. The question is clear: what say you? 

Anakin as Satine’s bodyguard. It hadn’t even occurred to him, given not just his jealousy towards her. Simply put, Anakin’s most productive on assignments where he can be on the go. Guarding involves a lot of standing and doing nothing but be alert. Not exactly his forte. This was an unadvised path on so many levels. Why did Anakin even volunteer for this? Because then Obi-Wan wouldn’t? To prove a point about his ability? To find out more about Satine? Obi-Wan suspects it isn’t for altruistic purposes. His energy wave just reads determination. For what? 

But whatever Anakin’s logic, Obi-Wan doesn’t doubt his commitment or ability. As Anakin said, everyone he’s ever guarded made it out alive— more or less. Satine will be as safe with him as with any other Jedi. And this could be a positive experience for Anakin. A chance to learn how to put the mission above his feelings. To connect with someone he feels such resentment for. 

When it comes down the basics, Obi-Wan trusts Anakin: with the mission, with his own life, with the life of someone he loves. He gives Satine a nod in approval. 

“With such fine reference, then, I would be honoured,” Satine says. She holds a hand out to Anakin, who must know _something_ about Mandalorian culture, because he does the right thing. He bends his head down and kisses her knuckles: a warrior’s promise to put her life above their own. 

“I guess that’s set, then,” Obi-Wan says. 

“I’m with you,” Ahsoka confirms, watching Anakin with Satine. It does nothing to decrease Obi-Wan’s sense of foreboding, which he puts to the side for now. He should have more faith. 

“All the best with your investigation,” Prime Minister Almec says. His smile is generous.

It appears that Obi-Wan won’t lack for suspects. 

*

Away from the suspicious eyes of all those politicians, Obi-Wan takes a deep breath. “Let’s walk,” Obi-Wan tells Ahsoka. “We might stumble on more information that way.”

Mid-afternoon, the downtown is crowded with middle-aged humans. Even having never been in this version of Sundari, Obi-Wan can’t miss the nervous energy. It’s in the wary glances everyone gives them; the wide berth they receive from the otherwise compact crowd. It’s a city still reeling from a violent attack; a people whose recent memories of a tumultuous past have recently been revived. 

“After this, we’ll part ways, right?” Ahsoka asks.

“Makes sense to cover ground separately. We’ll learn more quickly that way.” 

“Are you sure it’s a good idea to let me go off on my own?” Ahsoka asks. 

“Where’s this coming from? You’ve been on solo assignments, you’re more than able to suss out a terrorist’s trail,” Obi-Wan says. The side of her mouth scrunches up in doubt. Whatever this is, it’s serious. He places a hand on Ahsoka’s shoulder; it was a gesture that’s always calmed Anakin down. “Ahsoka. Tell me. What’s on your mind?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not sure I really know what I’m doing. Did you hear about what happened on the mission before this one?” 

“The mind-controlling zombie worms? How could I forget.”

“Right. And you know—” Ahsoka looks down. “When I was supposed to save everyone, I choked.” 

“What do you mean?” He already knew that Barriss had lived another day, but he wanted to hear it in Ahsoka’s words. 

“I knew the zombies could infect thousands more, maybe even spread to the gallery. It was my _duty_ to stop that from happening, Master. But I couldn’t. I took a tremendous risk. I put everyone in danger. Because of my feelings.” 

“Did it work out?” 

“Does it matter?” 

“I’d say so, yes. Why do we do anything but because we want a specific result? So I ask you again, did it work out?” 

“I guess, yeah.” 

“Tell me more. What happened?” 

“I— I killed the zombie worms in time. All the soldiers and Barriss lived.” 

“No one died.”

“Yeah, but—” 

“What do you see as the problem, if you achieved such a successful result?” 

“Barriss says she would’ve killed me!” Ahsoka bursts out. “And I can’t stop thinking about it, if she would’ve done that, was I wrong? And if I’m wrong, do I want to be right? I keep thinking about who else would’ve killed me, or her, like— Master Obi-Wan, would you? And Master Plo? Master Yoda?” She puts a hand to her forehead. “And if everyone would kill me or my friends, then— then do I _want_ to be a Jedi?” 

Oh, dear. An existential crisis. Ideally, Anakin would’ve been here to help her through. Well. Any Jedi would help another in need. And being Anakin’s Padawan, Ahsoka is his too. She has been from the day she started her apprenticeship. “Come, let’s sit.” They find a bench and Ahsoka hops onto it, crossing her legs and hunching over. “Would you like to meditate with me?” 

She shrugs. “I guess. Shouldn’t we get on with the mission?”

“It can wait. You will be of no help to anyone while you’re this confused. Come, let’s start. Take a deep breath…” Obi-Wan counts out the initial rhythm: in, a three-beat count; out again; then once more. He closes his own eyes. There’s fear everywhere, crying and lost. From Ahsoka herself, and from the people milling around them as they go about their everyday business. All of Sundari pulses with dread. “What do you feel?” Obi-Wan asks. 

“Sadness. Grief. Fear.”

“From where?” 

“Everywhere.” 

“Let it go, Ahsoka.” He hears her intake of breath. “Find the Force. Let it clear your mind.” 

From there, he lets her take her time. He makes no demands of her; just gives her company as she finds her way. Time passes without comment, formless and meaningless. All there is is the now: the prickliness of Sundari’s air with its higher oxygen levels; the scent of the local petroleum; fragments of conversations. And through it all, the Force, true and strong if occasionally opaque. 

When Ahsoka breaks the silence, she is centered. “I think my true concern, Master Obi-Wan, is that I don’t know if I can tell right from wrong.” 

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit, Ahsoka. You have a keen  conscience . I would trust it to lead you.” 

Her eyes are penetrating. “Why does no one agree on what the right thing thing is?” 

Obi-Wan breathes in again. He feels lighter from the meditation session. He’s been carrying far too much, trying to help orient Anakin through his jealousy and anticipate how things will go with Satine. He’s been unconsciously hoping to control the situation between them. But he can’t and shouldn’t. “Because there is no such thing as ‘right’ or ‘wrong.’ There is the choice that you make— the one you must live with.” 

“The choice I must live with, huh.” Ahsoka tilts her head up to the sky. “So I better pick wisely.” 

“That’s all we can, and must, do.” 

“Thank you, Master.” Ahsoka stands up and bends towards him, clasping her hands together in the symbol of gratefulness. “I think I understand now.” 

“Good,” Obi-Wan says. “Trust yourself, Ahsoka. I know I do.” They share a smile. Not an entirely happy one, for it is tinged with the knowledge that not all the choices ahead of them will be easy. But it comes with the confidence that they will have clarity of vision when the time arrives, and the understanding that this is a mutual burden. 

*

Anakin hates her. He hates her right away. He hates her bright blonde hair and her flippant smirk; how her eyes are drawn to Obi-Wan's and Obi-Wan's to hers. The hatred is instant and visceral; the smell of stumbling on a rotten carcass. He wrinkles his nose. But he can be professional. He has to be. "Be kind," Obi-Wan asked. And last night, when they lay together, kissing and holding each other, Anakin had sworn he’d do Obi-Wan proud. 

He can do this. For the Chancellor, who made this request. For Padmé, who considers Satine her friend. And for Obi-Wan, who loves for her, for who knows what reason. 

Sometimes Anakin can’t believe the things he’ll do for love. 

Satine dismisses her fawning crowd once Obi-Wan and Ahsoka take their leave. “Skywalker, was it?” she asks. The stately doors have barely shut with the last of her retinue before she turns heel and exits through the back. For a politician she’s fast. Anakin makes wide strides to keep up. “You needn’t stay pinned to my side. I can take care of myself, whatever General Kenobi thinks.” 

“It’s my duty,” Anakin says. “I’m here, whether you like it or not.” He certainly doesn’t. But it was either this or have Obi-Wan be ‘pinned’ to her side. No way. He wasn’t too keen on Ahsoka taking this babysitting job either. Enough people he loved were into this Satine. He didn’t need to add his own Padawan to the list. Maybe it was jealousy, but Anakin didn’t care. Ahsoka’s probably happier having a proper adventure anyway. 

“Then you’d best keep up.” 

Best keep up? Who was the Jedi here? 

Satine leads him through a maze of tight tunnels illuminated only by faint blue lights in the ground. Someone without as good a sense of direction as him would be lost within a few turns. Anakin makes a point of memorizing their path. If she abandons him he’s not going to be at her mercy. 

They reach an octagonal room lined with mirrored doors. Anakin has to blink to adjust his eyes to the brighter gold here. Satine opens one of the doors and roots through what turns out to be a closet filled with outfits. “If you will insist on stalking me, I can find something suitable for you. This will do.” She tosses him a brown cloak. 

Anakin looks the garment over. It’s just a shade short for him, so his boots will show. The hood will easily cover his face. “Are we going into hiding?”

Satine is pulling on her own hooded robe. He makes note of her involuntary jerk as she pulls the sleeve over her arm. Her injury is still giving her grief. “When your face is as known as mine is here, you cannot just saunter out in public and expect to remain unrecognized. And you, you’re obviously a foreigner. You will draw attention with your armour, and your lightsaber will give you away as a Jedi.” 

The sleeves are short too. They don’t make it to his wrists. Anakin scowls, tying the robe closed with simple leather ties. He looks ridiculous. “You didn’t answer my question, Duchess.” 

“I thought you were here as my bodyguard, not my inquisitor.” 

Anakin clenches his teeth. He _knew_ he didn’t like her. Being professionally polite, much less _kind_ , might be more than he can take on. “Right, your bodyguard. But I can do my job _better_ , Duchess, if I know where the heck we’re going and why.” 

Satine eyes him. “Do you have a problem with me, General Skywalker? You came with General Kenobi’s recommendation, but I am beginning to question his judgement.” 

It’s too much for him. “Leave him out of it.” Anakin can’t help but snarl. Never mind that Obi-Wan ‘cares’ for him and lover _her_. Obi-Wan is _his_. She can’t touch him.  

“Hm,” Satine says. Her gaze becomes more intense. “I think I begin to understand. Do you work with him often?” 

“All the time,” Anakin says without thinking. He’s tall enough to tower over Satine; he still tilts his chin up to look down at her. “We’re the best team in the Jedi. He was my Master and he taught me everything I know.” He has a claim to Obi-Wan Satine could never imagine. Whatever they had, whatever Obi-Wan’s feelings are for her, it can’t erase his history with Obi-Wan. What they share is more meaningful and will last longer. It _has_ to.

“I’m sure.” Satine draws her hood over her head, rendering her face invisible. “And here I thought the Jedi were not allowed romances.” 

Anger explodes in Anakin. “That is _none_ of your business.” His fists flex. He wants to yell. It’s all he can do to stop from breaking anything.

“I could not agree more.” Satine walks away from him, going into another branch of the maze. “How about this, then. Do your job, if you must. And stay out of my way.” 

She thinks she’s so smart and amazing. Well, he’ll show her. He can protect her life _and_ hate her guts. 


	6. primary resistance at a critical low

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mission progresses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Imogen Heap’s “The Walk.”

Satine weaves her way through the hidden corridors. Left, then right, then right again. She moves at a brisk pace, Skywalker's footsteps solid behind her. She didn't really expect to throw him off. Any physically active Jedi worth their salt could walk as fast as an untrained human.

Well. It was yet to be determined if Skywalker was worth his salt.

Walking into the Palace’s private hangar, she’s greeted by the smell of mechanical oils and grease. Her favourite speeder is parked by the door. Neither her mourning robes nor the ones for hiding in plain sight are ideal for the ride, but she’s straddled it in more complicated layers. It revvs into action as she twists the starter on the handle bars. It’s a sound she knows well.

“Room for two?” Skywalker asks, swinging a leg to sit behind her.

“Not really.” His hands latch around her waist. “Hands _off_ ,” Satine barks.

“You want me to fall off?”

“Aren’t you a Jedi? Use the Force to hang on.” 

Conversation is over as she launches into gear, the speeder hurtling for the opening exit. The engine is loud enough that they don’t have to pretend to make small talk— not that she’d bother. She suspects Skywalker doesn’t care to pretend either. Unfortunately, he stays well seated behind, the forward propulsion failing to topple him off.

He’s nothing, anyway. Just a pesky bug to swat away. Nothing worth minding over.

She increases the gears as they enter skyway traffic, reaching top speed. Her course is clear: head due east until you reach the less savoury parts of town, then follow the maze-like path to an apartment complex she really must get around to insisting is renovated. Today. She'll talk to Agot, Minister of Home, today. There should be enough from this year’s emergency funds. Dilapidated spaces like these are a breeding ground for dissatisfaction and dissident.

Satine would know. It’s her sister’s Bo-Katan’s last known address. Before she made abundantly clear her pride in the old Mandalorian ways and vanishing from the city.

Would it be worse to find her or not? Satine honestly doesn’t know.

*

Anakin’s going to lose his mind. They’ve been in this stupid apartment building complex for _hours._ There’s only so much milling around in the background he can do as Satine comes in and out of this building and chats up the locals. These Mandalorians are dressed way shabbier than anyone at the Palace and emanate a general state of malaise. Malnutrition? Chronic under-heated dwellings?

They just seem miserable. Even so, these scuffed people don’t give Anakin anywhere near as menacing a vibe as half the politicians in Satine’s throne room. So Anakin hangs back, watching. Satine would probably glare him into smithereens if he tried to snoop.

He can’t resist. As Satine approaches the umpteenth person— how incognito is she going to be if she talks to an entire city block?— Anakin taps his wrist-comm. “Obi-Wan,” he says.

A miniature Obi-Wan materializes. “Anakin, is something wrong? How’s the Duchess?”

Of course the first thing he thinks of is his _girlfriend_. He holds back from rolling his eyes. As far as Obi-Wan knows, he is perfectly supportive of his stupid love. “Nah, she’s fine. She's just been wandering about this old building talking to anyone who’ll stop for five minutes.”

“Why, what’s there? Where are you?” Obi-Wan’s hologram peers around as if the technology would let him see that far.

“Just east of the Palace in some slums. Beats me why we’re here. She won’t tell me a thing. I think if I hadn’t grabbed onto the speeder in time, she’d have left me at the Palace.”

The corner of Obi-Wan's mouth quirks. “To be fair, you haven't exactly been your most charming with her.”

Implying he _is_ charming. The roundabout compliment eases Anakin’s irritation, as does hearing Obi-Wan’s voice. “I’m plenty charming,” Anakin argues. It’d probably be better to not mention the… spat he’d just had with Satine. It’s not relevant to the mission.

“There’s no suspicious activity in the area?”

“No, there’s no Death Watch members secretly lurking behind the pillars. Anyway, I think I’m more than able to keep her safe as she goes for a walk. Don’t you trust me?”

“Too much sometimes, perhaps.” Obi-Wan smiles. “So why’re you calling?”

Anakin shrugs. “Bored. Nothing’s going on. How’re the reports?”

“Useless.” Obi-Wan sighs. “I went over the list of everyone working at the Celebration Ceremony, and it’s hundreds of people long. Between security, and vendors, and speakers… I couldn’t narrow our suspects from that alone.”

Figures. Anakin’s never put much stock in data anyway. Nothing beats on-the-ground looking or gut instinct. “So what’s your next move?”

“Going over Death Watch from the time Satine became Duchess. They started on Concordia, shortly after Sundari ostracized the rebels to their moon, with a few acts of vandalism here and there. Nothing major, and they went quiet for a while. The Ministry of Defense thought they’d given up. Then there was the bomb.”

This piques Anakin’s interest. “Why’d they start up again?”

“I’ve been asking that myself. Something tells me they’re far from done.”

Anakin hopes so. He’ll die of boredom otherwise.

Talking to Obi-Wan like this, like nothing’s been weird or off, sets off a sort of melancholy in Anakin. This slight hologram is nowhere near enough to satisfy his needs. “Hey, Master?”

“What?”

How to say it? ‘I miss you.’ ‘Can I see you tonight?’ Anakin scuffs his boot against the cement. They’re stupid questions. Of course he can’t see Obi-Wan tonight, he’s still going to be on Satine duty. “Take care, yeah?”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says warmly. “Don’t you trust _me_?”

Maybe not. “You do have a self-destructive streak a mile wide.”

“Hahah. Just because I take _calculated_ risks—“

“Why is it ‘calculated’ when _you_ do it but when I do it’s—“

“Suicidal? Anakin, have you ever watched yourself?”

Anakin smirks. “Sounds like _you’ve_ been watching me.”

“Someone’s got to be ready to save your back when things start blowing up.”

“Just— ah,” Anakin says. Satine’s moving on from the group. “Gotta go. See you later.”

As he walks briskly enough to keep Satine in sight, Anakin lets himself imagine truly seeing Obi-Wan. He doesn’t have to spend the night. They could just intersect at the Palace. See Obi-Wan’s smile in person. Get a tap on the back. But if they could be together, properly, alone— something to last him this wretched mission.

*

Waiting for his first interview, Obi-Wan checks in with Ahsoka. “Nothing at the site of the bomb,” she reports by comm. “The trail’s completely dead here.”

“It was worth a look,” Obi-Wan sighs. “Any other leads you want to follow?”

“Nothing official, I just— my instincts are telling me it’s right in front of us and we’re just seeing it yet.”

That strange sense of foreboding had been stirring in Obi-Wan too. Like he could walk into a room and be surrounded by the Death Watch. “Anything else your instinct is telling you?”

Ahsoka tilts her head, thinking. “I want to explore more. Get around the city.”

“It’s better than doing nothing, I suppose. Let me know if you come across anything.”

Prime Minister Almec keeps Obi-Wan waiting another good fifteen minutes. “My apologies,” he says as he strolls in. “There’s no end to my meetings, especially after this tragedy. Funeral arrangements, supports to the families who lost their breadwinners, that sort of thing.”

“Very kind of you to make time for me,” Obi-Wan says.

“So, I have about five minutes.” Alec folds his hands behind his back. “What can I help you with?”

When he’s on a mission to help, Obi-Wan’s used to being afforded all the time and attention he wants. Admittedly the things Almec lists sound proper and caring, but there’s still a hastiness that seems more on the lines of distrust than true compassion.

They’re in the meeting room Almec gave him when Obi-Wan requested his interview. The pristine white table in the centre, which could seat two dozen, stays unused. They gravitate towards the wide windows. The heart of downtown lies before them with beautiful walkways lined with plants. Speeders dart overhead and people walk quickly below— perhaps a little more quickly than they would normally. Obi-Wan doesn’t miss the nervous energy teeming around them, nor the white-robed security guards spread in the higher-volume paths. The city is holding its breath for what comes next.

“Just hoping you could help sate my curiosity about a couple of matters. How long have you been Prime Minister?”

“Oh, I didn’t think you’d ask about me,” Almec remarks lightly. “I was elected, how long ago was it now? About six years. I’ve been in politics my whole life, though.”

As a human with grey hair and wrinkles, Obi-Wan puts him at over forty, though age indicators can vary wildly from planet to planet. Possible older than fifty. Either way, it’s long enough that he was in politics with the previous government. Before the elder Kryzes were overthrown and executed in public. Which side was he on? Couldn’t have officially been with the uprising; they were banished off-planet. “You must have seen Mandalore through some of its more… turbulent phases, then.”

“Yes, absolutely. It’s been a time of great change for us. No one thought our pacifist government would last a month, let alone celebrate its twelfth year. You should hear our newscasts. They said we didn’t have it in us.”

“Why’s that?” Obi-Wan asks, careful to leave his tone just this side of nonchalant.

“Just some nonsense about how we have blood bred into our genes.” Almec’s smile belies the weight of their discussion. “There’s still some who would glorify our warrior past, you see.”

As much as Satine would like to do away with armed conflict, Obi-Wan can’t imagine that centuries of tradition can be thrown away. “Tell me more about that.”

“What is there to say? Our constitution forbids lethal weapons of any kind, and only defensive forms of combat can be taught. Occasionally our Defense Forces comes upon a collector of old Mandalorian armour, or a drunk bunch of hooligans talking into their pints about bringing back honour duels, that sort of thing. Most of it is fairly harmless.”

“What does the Defense Force do with these people?”

“Jail, mostly. If they’ve caused any damage, we send them to Concordia.” 

“And where do your sympathies lie, Prime Minister? With the pacifist movement, or the return to Mandalore’s glory days?”

It’s a technique Obi-Wan enjoys. Probe in a non-threatening way, and then, in just as measured a tone, ask the hard question. The person’s expression in that moment is so tell-tale. Almec blinks and opens his mouth. But he recovers very quickly. So quickly it would seem he was telling the truth. “I am in complete support of our government’s vow of peace, of course. I have great admiration for the Duchess’ vision.”

Obi-Wan doubts that very much. “Doubtless,” Obi-Wan agrees. “Would you be able to give me the names of these, what did you call them, hooligans?”

“Off the top of my head? I’m afraid my memory is not that sharp. But I can arrange for you to receive a list, I suppose. What do you need it for?”

He needs to be careful here. He doesn’t want to engage Almec’s interest too much and risk him tampering with evidence. “Oh, just to have an idea of numbers.”

As for getting _access_ to those ‘hooligans,’ Obi-Wan’s not going to ask Almec. Can’t tip his hand so early in the game.

*

“Tied up,” Obi-Wan tells Ahsoka and Anakin when they meet up in person. Satine is the next room over in a private meeting and they’re comparing notes while waiting for her to be done.

“What’s that supposed to mean? How can a list be tied up?” Ahsoka asks.

“It’s bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo,” Anakin translates. “Basically, he’s stalling. He doesn’t want to give Obi-Wan that list.”

“Because he’s involved?” Ahsoka asks.

“That’s where I’d put my money,” Obi-Wan says.

It’s the end of a long day. A day of chasing after a proper goal seems to have Anakin and Ahsoka a world of good. If they were long-faced in the morning, they’re animated now, gesturing with their hands and talking over each other. Obi-Wan smiles. It’s good to see them back to their normal selves.

“Everywhere I go, things feel… off,” Ahsoka says.

“Yeah,” Anakin eyes glide towards the sealed conference room. “I get that.”

“I don’t think your personal dislike of the Duchess counts as a proper suspicion,” Obi-Wan says. Ahsoka and Anakin whip their faces to stare at him. “What, I wasn’t supposed to acknowledge that out loud?”

“He’s got you there,” Ahsoka says.

Anakin’s scowl evolves into an expression of protected dignity. “I don’t _have_ to like everybody. I can be professional.”

“Can’t wait to see it,” Obi-Wan says. But Anakin’s been sensitive lately, so he accompanies the tease with a back pat. Anakin’s half-smirk seems confused at best. It’s better if he can keep the humour of the situation. If he’d learn to laugh at himself, he’d experience far less irritation. “Come, now. It builds character to defend those you can’t stand. You’ll be fine.”

The double doors open and out pour a series of politicians, still in the somber blue of mourning. Some glance at the three of them and give a curt nod; others shuffle quickly onward looking straight ahead. Obi-Wan makes note to remember the faces of those who nodded. In his experience, people tend to be intimidated by the title of Jedi and avoid any kind of confrontation. The ministers who made a point to acknowledge them may, counterintuitively, be the ones with something to hide.

Satine is the last to leave. Her eyes are sunken with a touch of purple underneath. Her fatigue is palpable. Tired or not, her glance remains razor-sharp. “Did you think I would not survive a meeting?”

Right now Obi-Wan  would give her better odds of surviving a swim in a tank of colo clawfish than meeting with that pack of politicians . He’s also sure she’s not ready to hear how much he doubts her colleagues. “Better safe than sorry, my Lady.”

“Hm.” She casts a look at Anakin. “You need a rest, I imagine.”

“I’m fine, Duchess,” Anakin says, ultra-polite.

“Are you? Regardless, I insist you take a night’s leave,” Satine brushes him off. “General Kenobi. Do you think you’re up to the task of ensuring no one brings me harm as I sleep?”

“I—“ How does she always stun him speechless? But her aura is as firm as ever. She’ll brook no argument. And what is there to argue? Taking shifts only makes sense. “I suppose I am.”

Energy spikes to his left. Obi-Wan needn’t look to know Anakin’s ready to boil. Not that that’s relevant to anything. “I believe I should be able to manage that task.” Did he say boil? Gutted might be a more apt description. How can Anakin have so little faith in him? What is there to have faith _in_?

Obi-Wan can’t help but be vaguely annoyed. They’ve been over this. He’s allowed to have his own life and feelings. That’s even taking for granted that Satine has personal motives in requesting his aid. A firm statement should help him remember to accept the situation. “Anakin, you can take over again tomorrow morning.”

The fear gives way to anger, Anakin’s answer to everything. “Master. Don’t.”

He doesn’t want a confrontation, not with Ahsoka there growing alarmed and Satine looking vindicated. “We can discuss any concerns you have later. The Duchess is right, you’ll need to sleep.”

Red splotches pepper Anakin’s face. “And you won’t?”

The innuendo is clear and offensive. Obi-Wan’s annoyance spikes into embarrassment and anger. Anakin’s stubborn, he knows this well, but there should still be a time and a place. Humiliating himself with Satine standing _right there_ , with his impressionable Padawan absorbing poor lessons in conflict management, was beyond egregious. How doesn’t Anakin know better? “You will know your place, General Skywalker. You’ve been dismissed for the evening.”

“Let’s go,” Ahsoka says, taking Anakin by the elbow. “Thank you, General Kenobi. Good evening, Duchess.”

Anakin doesn’t budge, even with Ahsoka’s unsubtle tugs. His eyes are narrowed, his entire countenance vermillion. He bit his lips so hard they’ve disappeared.

Completely unacceptable. They will have a _lot_ to discuss later. Refusing to add fuel to Anakin’s unrighteous fury, Obi-Wan links his arms with Satine’s. “Shall we, m’lady?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” she says.

Anakin’s piercing gaze bores into him as they walk away. _So_ much to talk about.

*

“That boy isn’t stable.”

Those are Satine’s first words once they’re ensconced in her chambers. It’s not quite as stark as the other spaces Obi-Wan’s seen in the Sundari Palace. Thick, plush drapes cover the windows; the carpet is equally velvety. Gold-rimmed furniture adorns the room with sophisticated, baroque curves. There is a delicate fragrance of connum, a Mandalorian fruit and Satine’s favourite scent.

Satine undrapes her mourning robes and drops them on one of several armchairs. From there she goes to her vanity and sits on the stool with a striped cushion. With a rose-coloured sponge and she begins the slow, careful work of removing her makeup. Her dark-shaded eyelids become the same pale parlour as the rest of her skin, almost translucent.

Obi-Wan heaves a sigh, tucking his hands behind his back. “Please don’t you start too, Satine. It’s enough that Anakin’s behaving so immaturely.”

“Is that what you’re calling it? Immaturity?”

Is that all it is? Still outgrowing his tantrums? Obi-Wan’s more than willing to continue guiding Anakin as he works through his weaknesses, but what’s it going to take? His own Padawan, a mere teenager, has a keener sense of propriety and etiquette; knows how to address her worries and seeks the answers. Anakin’s first reaction is still to lash out and repent later. What’s Obi-Wan missing?

“Explain this to me, Obi-Wan,” Satine says. Now her whole face is cleared. It makes her look softer, somehow; more vulnerable. “Why have you let this psychopath delegate himself to me? I don’t have time for babysitting.”

She’s not unlike Anakin in this regard. Her sensitivity translates into ire. Obi-Wan places his hands on her shoulders. Her dress is silky soft and he can feel her sharp bones beneath. “That’s harsh, even for you, Satine. He has a lot to learn. But his heart is in the right place. You’ll come to see that.”

How did so much time pass? Looking at the portrait they paint in the mirror, it’s startlingly clear that they’ve lived entire lives away from each other.

“You realize he’s head over heels for you, don’t you?” Satine clasps one of his hands with hers. “He seethes with jealousy— oh.” He tries to stay neutral, but something must give him away for she pauses and looks up. “Oh, Obi-Wan. Please don’t tell me it’s mutual.”

Obi-Wan supposes it is. He seems fated to disappoint those he cares about today. “I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Your own _Padawan_?” Satine withdraws her hand from his and returns to her ablutions. Hair strands tumble onto her porcelain-white neck as she undoes her clips. “ _That_ boy? I didn’t realize the Jedi— never mind. This has nothing to do with me.”

On her, the proud jealousy is almost endearing. She’s pushing away rather than clinging closer; it’s a nice change of pace from Anakin. “Satine, don’t be like that. It’s hard enough with Anakin—“

“So you admit it. He makes things hard for you.”

“You’re not much easier.”

Satine snorts. “You wound me, Obi-Wan. But enough of him.” She rises and goes behind a dressing panel. Painted on it is a beautiful tree with twisting branches and flourishing pink petals. The screen is opaque enough that he can see the dark shadow of her form. “What have you and your team uncovered today? Have you found who’s trying to murder me?”

Her sarcasm does not go undetected. “Not yet, but we’re making progress.”

“I should hope so.” Her dress slips over the top of the screen. Obi-Wan decides to examine a particularly ornate broach in her jewelry box. Tries to not pay any mind to his sudden flush.

“I heard you visited some residencies to the east.”

“So he’s a spy, on top of of being your love.”

Obi-Wan doesn’t want to begin touching ‘your love’ with a ten-foot pole. Arguing is not going to improve his case. “It is his job to report his work for the day. What were you doing there?”

“Making inquiries.” When she glides back into view, she is in a multi-layered sleep robe of pastel pinks and cream whites. “What was your progress?”

Given that he wants to point fingers at her own government, Obi-Wan’s not quite ready to reveal their direction. “Nothing I can report on yet.”

“Hm. If you don’t want to say, then that means you think it’s someone close to me.” She slides into her four-poster bed, several feet off the ground. “I figured out as much for myself. Is there anything you need for your work?”

“Prime Minister Almec promised me a list of the persons caught trying to bring back honour duels, but I have yet to receive it.”

“It is yours.” Satine yawns and turns into her pillows. Obi-Wan is not at all surprised that she does not hint he join her. “Room, lights off.”

The lights dim; a ghostly blue aura emanates from the baseboard. He should make himself comfortable. Stay on the alert for any intruders, but sleep lightly enough to perceive imminent danger. He is just about set on a leather loveseat when Satine speaks again. “Obi-Wan.” Her voice is soft; the timbre she allows when audiences are gone and it just them.

“Yes, Satine.”

There is a quiet pause. Then: “I haven’t forgiven you for staying with the Jedi.”

He sighs. “You never asked me to stay.”

“But you knew I wanted you to.”

What use is there in denial? “Yes.”

“I didn’t ask you on purpose. I wanted to see how you’d choose.”

He’s had this argument with Satine dozens, hundreds of times, in his head. He’s never won a single round, not even in his imagination. It can’t be any different this time. “I’m a Jedi. I don’t know any other life. I would’ve given it up for you—“

“Would you?”

Satine says it so matter-of-factly and yet it throws him. It’s what he’s always believed. But… Obi-Wan’s not the man he was back then. He wasn’t even a man back then, not really. Just a child on the cusp of adulthood, hopelessly infatuated and with a solid grasp of his destiny. “Perhaps not,” he confesses. It’s easier than saying: perhaps yes.

“I thought as much.”

Satine says nothing more after that and Obi-Wan incites no conversation of his own.

*

Anakin’s fury is incandescent and scalding and can’t be contained by mere walls. Out. He needs to get out.

There’s no discernible difference in Sundari’s nighttime temperature as compared to day. It’s warm. Cloying. He glides over marble terraces and clambers over stone scaffolds. There is no hold or give to the material, but he’s scaled surfaces more sheer than this. The Force is his adhesive, letting him climb up and away. Maybe the air will be cooler up there. But as high as he gets, the temperature doesn’t change. Damn weather-controlling domes.

He climbs until there is nothing left, to the top of a Palace tower. City lights shimmer. So many people below. Is anyone down there as miserable as him?

Who knows what Obi-Wan and Satine are doing? Wine. Satine seems like someone who’d enjoy liquor. Holding a glass by the stem and sinking into a velvet-rich couch tucked by a window bathed in moonlight. Offering Obi-Wan a drink and telling him to sit next to her. There’s no space between them and they’re smiling at each other in a way that Obi-Wan never does with him because Obi-Wan doesn’t love _him_ —

The blood in his head pounds like a hammer. He’s going to lose Obi-Wan. Satine is going to seduce him and there’s nothing he can do. He’s losing him _this very second_. Each moment that passes, the deeper her claws will dig into him. He’s going to be sick. How’s this happening? How did he _let_ it happen? No matter how Obi-Wan shut him down, he should’ve stopped him. Guarding Satine was _Anakin’s_ job. He was going to protect Obi-Wan.

What does he see in her? With her snark and her magnificence and stone-cold beauty. So she’s smart, and passionate, and the ruler of an independent set of planets, and has the confidence of a Kaminoan. So what? Anakin is— well, he loves Obi-Wan. That ought to count for something. Who’s to say she likes him? She probably doesn’t appreciate Obi-Wan the way he does. How could she possibly know him as well? Anakin’s been by his side for _ten years_. She cares more about controlling everyone than Obi-Wan.

A longing for Padmé lights up another spark in him. He misses her more than he misses his flesh hand. Padmé would hold him, and love him, and make him feel like he was the only one in the entire galaxy.

“Don’t you want some sleep?”

Startled, Anakin turns. Ahsoka’s behind him, a hand on her hip. “Ahsoka? How’d you get up here?”

“Same as you, I guess. Climbed. I sensed you were up here.” She sits next to him, dangling one leg over the edge and resting an elbow on her other knee. “Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Don’t you want to sleep?”

Obi-Wan won’t be getting any sleep tonight. Nor will Anakin, knowing what’s happening _right now_ and his powerlessness to stop the man he loves from consorting with that woman. He has to right this. Somehow. Obi-Wan is _his_.

“Guess that’s a no, then.” Ahsoka stretches her hands above her head. “You gonna stay here all night?”

“Why?” Anakin asks, annoyed. She keeps pulling him from his thoughts. “You got any better ideas?”

Her fangs show with her grin. “Yeah, I think I do. Care for a ride?”

“Like… on what? The _Twilight_?”

“Nah, we’ll just nab a couple of Mandalorian speeders from the Palace hangars. Bet you haven’t been on one before.”

Anakin winces at that morning’s memory, of hanging on by a sheer thread in the Force while Satine went so fast she broke her own traffic laws. “You just lost that bet. But, yeah.” He _should_ be the one at the helm. “Let’s do it.”

With what looks like an awfully smug smirk, Ahsoka flips to grab the wall on her climb back to the ground. “Now _that’s_ the Skyguy I know. C’mon, last one is a rotten loser.”

“Ah, don’t call yourself a loser, Snips,” Anakin yells as he rushes to catch up. No _way_ is he gonna to lose. And anyway, it’s good for his Padawan to get a bit of competition in. How better to train her in speed and dexterity than to ruthlessly crush her in a race? Not that she’ll beat him. No one can, not even Obi-Wan. It’s neck-to-neck and Ahsoka might’ve come in closer, except that she starts to laugh, like, really laugh, and just the sound of it does Anakin’s heart more good than he cares to realized.

“Maybe you won that last round,” Ahsoka says, a glint in her eye. “But the _real_ race is with the speeders.”

“No contest,” he retorts. He’s light-headed with an adrenaline rush. A race? Bring it _on_.

Except that instead of taking the race _seriously_ , Ahsoka starts off by doing crazy spins, and Anakin’s not going to let her show off her technical moves when he can do a _literal_ loop-de-loop with a ground bike, and then they’re just goofing around and seeing what moves they can pull out of these machines. Anakin starts to grin. It’s truly such a joy to just _ride_ and experiment with the engine’s physics; so much so, that he almost forgets about Obi-Wan. Almost.

“I let you win,” Ahsoka says as they glide the bikes back into the hangar. The day’s dawning and Anakin could go another week without lying down.

“‘A Jedi does not lie, least of all to oneself,’” Anakin quotes loftily.

She snorts. “Since _when_?”

“Hey, just ‘cause we’re not perfect doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try.”

Ahsoka goes quiet. “Master?”

“What?”

“I really didn’t want to say anything, because I know it’s not my business, but I know— I know about you and Master Obi-Wan.”

His heart stutters. “What about me and Obi-Wan?”

“Oh, don’t act dumb, you know what I mean.” Ahsoka yanks on the park break more strength than necessary.

“Hey, it’s a machine, not a droid, don’t break it.”

Ahsoka rolls her eyes. “I didn’t park _that_ hard. And stop changing the subject.”

He dials the ignition off slowly. He wanted her to know. He did. But he’d wanted to tell her. Triumphantly. Because he wasn’t alone, and he was in love, and she could have that too, if she wanted. Not like this. Not when Obi-Wan had talked him down in front of everyone and walked off with that stupid Duchess. “Yeah, so?” She jumps off the bike and she’s faster than he really gives her credit for, because she’s got his hands in hers before he realizes what’s happening. “Hey!”

Anakin tries to yank his hands back but Togrutas are sturdier than they look, especially this one. “ _Master_.”

“ _What_.”

“ _Look_ at me.”

He’d snarl, but then he does look, and he’s struck silent by her eyes. They’re just… soft and worried and they don’t _do_ this, the two of them. They joke and make fun of each other and he feels like he’s been flung into space without a suit. “Snips?”

“I don’t— don’t get hurt, Master.”

What can he say? He laughs a bark. “Don’t be stupid, Ahsoka, I’m not hurt.”

She growls. “For crying out loud, Anakin, _stop_ , stop pretending. I know. I can see it! You can’t hide it from me!” Part of him wants to shut her down. This is impertinence, his own Padawan shouldn’t mouth off at him like this! But another part craves to hear what she has to say. Craves the recognition of his pain, as much as he wants to bury it deep in the planet’s molten core. “You need to be more careful. I know Master Obi-Wan and you care for each other, and I know he thinks he knows what he’s doing, but I don’t think he does, not really. You have to tell him. You _have_ to.”

“I—“ Her grip tightens. Her nails are sharp. Hard. “Tell him _what_?”

“I don’t know. What you’re going through? Anything’s better than this.” And then her arms are around him, and he’s got a face full of montrals, which are more velvety than he’d ever been led to suspect, and a crushing pain in ribs as Ahsoka forgets her own strength. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

“ _Ouch_ ,” he says pointedly.

“I’m not apologizing.” She squeezes harder. “It’s the only way to get through to you.”

What he can do? He hugs her back. He’s touched, even if he can’t tell her. It’s just too weird, Ahsoka being this nice. “Didn’t realize what a sap you are.”

“Just shut up and appreciate the hug!”

He does.

*

Bo-Katan refuses to shiver. She’s indomitable; above physical limits.

It’s just that this damn moon is so _cold_. She’s never liked Concordia, not even when her parents dragged her as part of their political circus. Not that she’s like them. They were weak. She’s been through worse, dragged from inhospitable planet to satellite in this long trek to keep the Death Watch going. It’ll be over soon. Sundari is within their grasp. And once they have Sundari, they’ll have all of Mandalore. All the airs Satine puts on in her so-called pacifism will be revealed for the smoke and shadows act it is. Mandalorians will be _clamouring_ for a new, powerful ruler.

If they need to make a few unsavoury friends to get there, then so be it.

She’s at the comm centre at the designated time. Bo-Katan doesn’t like to be the one following orders, but hardships must be endured for eventual victory. They won’t need this nameless stranger for much longer. Not once she’s seated in the Palace.

At the exact time, the hooded figure appears before her. He may be creepy and weird, but if nothing else, he’s punctual. And has amazing access to financials and resources. “You’ve laid out the foundations for the next wave?”

Bo-Katan always gets the discomfiting sense he wishes her to kneel before him. Fuck that. She squares her shoulders. “We’re all set. They’ll go off tomorrow. They literally won’t know what hit them.”

The cloak hides most of him, but his grin, sinister as the muzzle of a laser gun, features front and centre. Bo-Katan’s sudden shiver has nothing to do with the cold. “Excellent.”


	7. worlds apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear, patient readers ❤ I'm happy to report that I'm writing at a steady, joyful clip. I'm well into chapter 11 (featuring the looooongest conversation between Obi-Wan and Anakin, Anakin's starting to lose steam!) or just about 20,000 words. If I don't post chapters more often, it's because it's hard for me to switch from Writing to Editing mode.
> 
> Right now my priority is to write the story :D Since the flow is going so well! So I might still be slow to post chapters. That said, writing this fic is a priority for me *and* I'm having a ball. I'm confident I will see this story through to the end and share it with you ❤ 
> 
> It will be a rough ride for our beloved characters-- all so that they can grow and learn and earn that affirmative ending! I just want these grumpy idiots to be happy ❤❤❤❤
> 
> Without further adieu, here is the chapter!

Anakin strides at first, but his heart gets ahead of him and he bursts into a run, pumping his legs as if a bomb’s exploding. 

_Tell him_.

Ahsoka’s right. What an idiot he’s been. He just has to _tell_ Obi-Wan. All this time he’s been moping and sulking and hoping Obi-Wan would _notice_. He can’t sit back and wish for him. Anakin can’t let the man he loves slip through his fingers because he’s too scared to make a move. No way. He loves Obi-Wan too much. He _won’t_ let him go. It worked with Padmé. He told her his feelings, kissed her on that sun-blessed balcony, and look at them now. Married. In love. He’s been frightened with Obi-Wan, because he’s… well, he’s his Master, and he has such high expectations and standards, and his disapproval would crush him. 

But it’s going to go his way. Anakin’s sure of it. He’s going to tell Obi-Wan everything and it’s gonna be okay. 

If he almost knocks down random passersby in the Sundari Palace, well, at least they didn’t actually fall over. 

*

Satine’s head hurts. Worse than her arm, if that’s possible. The pain thuds deeper than after a night of injurious drinking choices, which she has not done since before ascending to the throne. She rolls in the smooth sheets as though that’ll relieve the pain. It does anything but. As she turns, Obi-Wan comes into sight. He’s crossed his legs and holds his hands on his knees, eyes closed. A meditative sleep. The same as whenever it was Qui-Gon’s turn for a proper rest. Satine’s irascibility spikes. Back then they’d had so much _possibility_ , even on the run from murdering terrorists. And here is Obi-Wan now, living the pretence of a monk’s life while doling out violence as if it’s medicine and sleeping with his child of an apprentice.

Not her life, not her choices. She doesn’t have _time_ for this nonsense.

She sits up and reaches for the comm on her bedside bureau. “Eetu.”

The answer is instantaneous. She wouldn’t abide by anything less. “Yes, my Duchess.” 

She’s not forgotten last night’s promise. And if nothing else, Obi-Wan is competent. She trusts his investigative instincts. “Give General Kenobi a complete list of all prisoners sentenced for supporting honour duels.” 

“At once, my Lady.” 

“Send my handmaidens in and tell me my day’s schedule.”

She hears rustling. Obi-Wan’s come out of his trance. Satine pays him no mind

“You have a meeting at seven hours with Madame Agot regarding funding for the eastern block of residencies. Then breakfast—“ 

“Skip it.” She doesn’t know why Eetu keeps scheduling breakfast. Her stomach’s never settled in the mornings. “Use the gap to fit in a request for an audience.” Her citizens can request her attention for a matter they believe they needs to reach all the way to the top. It take months for such meetings to be granted, so she keeps up with them as best she can. All her people deserve counsel and support equally. 

Eetu reviews the rest of the day’s plans, with Satine instructing modifications as necessary. It provides an excellent excuse to ignore the Jedi in the room. All the better, once her conversation’s done, her handmaidens Marit and Mette come bearing armfuls of midnight blue fabric. Mette’s amethyst foundation and eyeshadow are impeccable, as is the gracious sweep of Marit’s pulled hair. “Morning, my Lady,” they chime. They’ve so perfected their synchronization that they seem like sisters— not that sisters are ever in synch. 

“Morning. I will be on the go today, I want my hair out of my face.”

“Understood, my Lady.” They move quickly, like minnows in a stream, so fast their movement cannot be discerned as they brush and separate her hair into intricate braids. It’s imperative to look regal, but Satine can’t spend all day at it. 

“Satine.” Obi-Wan finally speaks. “I was hoping for a moment alone.” 

If Marit and Mette give a curious peek at the Jedi, they do so very discreetly. “The moment to ask that was when I was reviewing my schedule with Eetu,” Satine states. She doesn’t— the anger is sudden and unexpected, a knife’s stab in her throat. But for all the precision of the feeling, the sources are disparate and bleed into one another. He only came to see her as part of a political invasion. His own _Padawan_ , that immature impatient angry _boy_. Mandalore is in crisis and he’s hindering her with these useless _feelings_. 

He stays behind her. Thankfully so. The anger is dissipating, but seeing him would only bring it back. “I see. Then let me say just this: I never meant to hurt you.”

This bald, personal statement. Right in front of her handmaidens. His sheer gall! Irritation flushes Satine’s face. “I’m sure I do not know what you mean, General Kenobi.” At this rate, even that man child’s company would be preferable to Obi-Wan’s. She’d thought maybe— maybe they could’ve had a frank, comforting discussion. Reconnect. That’s why she invited Obi-Wan last night. She’d longed to see him. Even if it meant stepping on her pride and making the request out loud. Instead, she can’t even look at him. This reunion isn’t what she wanted at all. 

It doesn’t matter that she didn’t choose him. That she picked Mandalore. The point is, he didn’t choose _her_. Not then, not now. 

“Very well, my Duchess.” The words are polite. The tone is exasperated and sarcastic. Obi-Wan prides himself on being a gentleman but he can be short too. “Will you require anything else of me?” 

Right now all she wants is for him to be gone. “Not at this time.” 

“Shall I send you General Skywalker?” 

Satine grits her teeth. It’s like picking between an acid Darlam blossom or a sour-tart Concordia berry. “Yes. Please.” 

It doesn’t help when Marit pulls a shade too hard on her hair. 

*

 

Obi-Wan rubs his temple. It’s not literally true that everyone on this planet is mad at him, but it certainly feels that way. He’s not exactly pleased with anyone either. It’s hard to maintain a positive outlook on a night of transient sleep, eyes snapping open with every ominous pulse in the Force. Or, in other words, _constantly_ , with everyone on edge from the bombing, the looming threat of further attacks, and mind-numbing jealousy. 

He wishes he could draw shades down on all this glittering glass filtering in morning light. Take a nap. Maybe everyone would be better behaved when he woke up. 

Might as well wish for galactic peace.

Obi-Wan’s hairs suddenly stand on end. Anakin. He’s coming. And with him, a surge of energy. It’s not all negative, there’s hope and intent swirling in there too. It’s just a _lot_ of feeling. He squares his shoulders. Within a moment Anakin skids around the corner and into sight. “Master!” Oh dear. His eyes are red and sunken. He hasn’t slept a wink. Given his ill-mannered display last evening, he should’ve. “There you are!” 

He sighs. Anakin’s excitement is that of a child on naming day. “Yes, here I am, no less visible than yesterday. You chose to stay up all night?” 

Anakin’s momentum falters. “I— yeah, but I’m fine, whatever. Look, we’ve got to talk.“ Anakin grabs his hand and yanks him into the nearest door. By Anakin’s luck, there’s no affronted politicians, just shelves of meticulously organized cleaning supplies and a not so subtle whiff of bleach. Obi-Wan walks back as many steps as the room will allow him, which is about one and a half. Anakin closes the space between them. 

Obi-Wan crosses his arms. If he weren’t so angry, he’d be almost amused to see where this was going. “I assume we’re here so you can apologize for last night’s tantrum?” 

“What?” At first befuddled, Obi-Wan watches realization sink in as the splotched blush and scowl emerge. “You mean—“ Anakin trails off, but Obi-Wan refuses to cross that awkward chasm. Anakin dug himself into this pit. He can climb out with own two hands. “Okay, maybe when we parted, I could’ve been nicer.” 

“Nicer? _Nicer_? Anakin, you were downright offensive! You’re lucky Satine didn’t kick you off the planet!

“She was inviting you to her room for the night, what did you want me to say?”

“How about, ‘Understood, call me when it’s my next shift’?”

The red drains away leaving a pale pallor. “But you— you and Satine—“ 

How many times will they have to go over this? Through the anger, Obi-Wan tries to find compassion. “Is completely irrelevant to you,” he says kindly. 

Anakin spins away from him and surely it’s not to read the degreaser labels. “Whatever,” he spits out. “Whatever. This isn’t about her.” He runs a hand through his hair. A couple of minutes pass as Anakin takes deep breaths. Obi-Wan’s willing to be patient as he works through whatever he needs to, but hopefully he’ll hurry up. Anakin should be with Satine and Obi-Wan’s not too keen on inhaling industrial-grade bacta. Eventually Anakin turns around again. “I need to tell you something.” 

“All right. Is it about the mission? I’m listening.” 

“No.” Anakin tries to clasp his face, but Obi-Wan edges back so now he’s just towering over him. “I love you, Obi-Wan. I’m in love with you.” 

Oh no. Oh dear. 

“I realize it may be a shock, but—“ 

“Not really,” Obi-Wan says. Let’s get this over with as soon as possible.

*

 

That’s not what he expected to hear. “Not really?” Anakin echoes. It takes a moment to process. “You knew?” 

Were all the times he’d choked back the words for nothing?

“Of course, Anakin, I’m not blind.” 

Obi-Wan _knew_. 

Is this fury or joy? Anakin has no idea, just that it’s swelling in him and it’s so intense he can’t speak, just feel. If Obi-Wan knew, then all this time they’d been together, it was all right, because Obi-Wan accepted him being in love— and by the same token, it wasn’t all right at all, because he’d never said anything, he’d never given any indication of his awareness of if he— if he— 

“Do you love me?” Desperation and hope lower his voice to an octave he’s never heard before. 

Of all things for Obi-Wan to look, Anakin hadn’t hoped for frustrated. “This really isn’t the time, Anakin.” 

“What’s there to be a good time about? You say it back, if you feel it. If you don’t, then you tell me.” Maybe the product fumes are starting to get to him. His head hurts. He twitches his hands, raises them, then lowers them again, no idea what to do with them in this tight space if Obi-Wan won’t let him touch him. 

It’s not a relief when Obi-Wan takes one of his hands because it’s not what he wants. Anakin grits his teeth. There should’ve been kisses. The swell of music in the background as Obi-Wan lifted him in his arms and took him against the wall then and there, unable to hold back his passion. “It’s not that simple,” Obi-Wan says. His gentleness angers Anakin further.

“It _is_ that simple. You love me or you don’t. You should know. You know everything.”

“This isn’t a good idea.” Obi-Wan makes as if to leave. Anakin sidesteps him to block the exit. They aren’t anywhere near done. 

“What does _that_ mean?”

“I shouldn’t encourage you.“ 

“ _Just tell me_.” He didn’t just shout, did he? It sounded loud. Maybe because this space is so small. 

Exasperation crosses Obi-Wan’s face. “Fine. Yes, I do.” 

It doesn’t feel real. “You do,” Anakin repeats, as though that’ll make the thought true. It’s what he’d wanted but hadn’t dared believe. “You _do_ love me,” he says, letting wonder tinge his voice. He could fly right now. He could honestly fly in this very cleaning room closet. But rather than fly, he crushes Obi-Wan against him. It’s happened. Obi-Wan _is_ his. Has been his this whole time. He just had to ask.

Obi-Wan places two hands on his chest and pushes. Why? This is the time to come together. “Anakin, you idiot. What did you think? That I didn’t?” This isn’t quite… going the way it did with Padmé. As suddenly as they’d formed, Anakin’s imaginary wings faded. “Haven’t you paid attention? I’ve loved you a long time. Why else would I—“ Why else what? Slept with him? Laughed with his eyes when the enemy had them cornered and it was the two of them against the droid hordes? Touched him like it meant something? “Is this what your jealousy’s been about? Why you’ve been biting off the head of the one you’ve sworn to protect? Because you thought I _didn’t_ love you?”

Every angry word drowns Anakin further into misery. Trust Obi-Wan to say he loves him and call him an idiot in the same breath. “How was I supposed to know?” 

Obi-Wan rubs the side of his face. “After everything we’ve been through, couldn’t you just trust me? Don’t you know how much I trust _you_? How could I know— I thought it was obvious. Do I have to spell it out?” 

“Yes. Please,” Anakin whispers. Letter by letter, until it makes sense in his heart. Until the truth sinks in deep enough to never escape him again. 

His gaze roams the room as if looking for something. “You make me feel alive. There’s no one I trust more.” Suddenly, Obi-Wan stares straight at him. “What do you want me to say? What do you need from me?” 

This isn’t remotely what Anakin wants or needs. Obi-Wan should just be sprouting words without thinking, just free-flowing with emotion. Not this awkward, halting explanation. Stars, when Obi-Wan had lectured him about calculating gravitational pulls he’d spoken with more sincerity. 

“Whatever,” Anakin mutters. Obi-Wan is a heartless robot who wouldn’t know a feeling if it slapped him in the face. Okay, so he’s not, but Anakin’s done trying. “Forget it.” 

“If that’s what you want. Now can we please get back to our work?” 

Anakin’s in a foul mood when he storms into Satine’s meeting. She arches her eyebrows and waves to have him lean in. She softly remarks, “You look even happier than yesterday.” 

She is the _worst_. No. _Obi-Wan_ is the worst. “Let’s just say, I don’t get what you see in him,” he spits out. 

Believe it or not, Satine smiles. “Funny. I was going to say the same thing to you.” 

She doesn’t look half so awful when she’s not scowling. 


	8. we don't see eye to eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers ❤ Writing continues apace! I can't wait to share with you!
> 
> My new goal is to post at least one chapter a month while I'm still writing. There's a lot to come, so hold on tight!

The floating prison absorbs natural light, glowing a supernatural teal. Like all the other structures on Sundari, it is elegance defined, but something out of a nightmare. Like dreaming you’ve been imprisoned in darkness and you’ll never wake up. For Obi-Wan, it’s a nice break from all the yelling from those he loves.

He presents the ID chip collared around his neck. “General Kenobi. I have a pass from the Duchess authorizing me access the prison.” 

The guard eyes the chip as if it were a severed limb. Interesting. “It’s not visiting hours.” 

“Good thing I’m not here to visit,” Obi-Wan says cheerfully. “I’m here to interview. Unless you’d like to take that up with the Duchess?” 

He doesn’t growl, but he might as well, the scans the ID with such unresolved aggression. Obi-Wan’s permission is confirmed with a chipper beep. 

“Don’t get lost,” the guard says, more threat than advice. 

“They sure hire them for their sunny personalities, don’t they,” Obi-Wan remarks to Artoo. “You scanned in his image?” He’s hardly fluent in Binary, but he recognizes a “yep” when he hears one. “Perfect.” 

At least the guard wasn’t misleading him about getting lost. Ingenious, really. The labyrinth of corridors must keep the prisoners in better than bars. Artoo’s pre-downloaded map helps, but Obi-Wan is careful to memorize their tracks. Getting separated from your droid is practically a stereotype by now. Having entered from the top, they descend the prison through claustrophobic, lattice staircases. “Shall we start with Sisko Thorn? Found guilty of disturbing the public peace with drunken calls for honour duels.” 

His Binary isn’t good enough to pick out Artoo’s exact words, but he gets the general gist. “Come, now, what’s the worst that could happen?”

*

Ahsoka watches Anakin bolt off to find Obi-Wan. Her chest warms with a touch of pride: hopefully those two crazy kids figure things out.

But she’s one to talk. ‘Tell Obi-Wan,’ she’d told Anakin. She doesn’t even know what she’ll say to Barriss the next time they meet. ‘You’d kill me and I don’t like that’?

Her stomach rumbles loud. When was the last time she’d eaten anything more than ration bars? Too far back to remember. A good meal’s important, Ahsoka decides. She’s still growing.

Ahsoka’s in the Palace cafeteria loading her plate with steaming buns and stew-soaked grains when she feels eyes on her. Very, very curious eyes. There. It’s a pair of well-coiffed young humans whispering to each other behind their hands. Before Ahsoka can call out to them, they make their way to her. They’re the first Mandalorians who have approached her. It’s nice not to be treated like an outcast. “You’re the other Jedi,” the blonde one says with wonder. 

“Be polite, Mette,” the russet-haired one chides. She puts a hand on her hip. Up close, Ahsoka sees the delicate twirls and beading in her hair. 

“But I’ve never seen a Togruta in person before,” Mette says. Her glittering make-up smells like crushed diamond. “Much less a Jedi one! Hm, you’re not as hairy as the other one.”  

“Other one?” Ahsoka asks. 

“The one in the Duchess’ bedroom this morning,” Mette supplies eagerly. 

“Oh, that’s Master Kenobi. He happens to have a beard, it’s not like it’s a Jedi requirement,” she smiles. It’s not Ahsoka’s first time meeting people who’d never met a Jedi before. She prefers it when they ask their questions because then she can actually answer them. Even the more apprehensive ones who think they’re being judged tend to relax once they realize a lightsaber’s not going to ram through their throat. “I’m Jedi Padawan Ahsoka Tano, it’s nice to meet you.” 

“Ah-so-ka,” Mette repeats. “What a weird name!” 

“Mette!” her friend says, affronted. “Forgive her, she’s new to the Palace.”

“So are you,” Mette protests. 

“I’m Marit,” she says, ignoring the criticism. “And this is Mette. We’re both handmaidens to the Duchess.” 

“You have to join us for breakfast!” Mette says. “I can’t wait until I tell my parents I met an actual Jedi!” 

“She has no tact, but she means well,” Marit confides in Ahsoka. And that’s how she found herself seated with a new pair of friends. 

“What’s it like, being a Jedi?” Mette’s curls frame her round, sweet face. “Is it true that you can turn invisible?” 

It’s not the wildest rumour Ahsoka’s heard. “If we can, I haven’t learned that lesson! And it’s fun, we get to travel and help people everywhere.” 

“That sounds nice,” Mette says. “Sundari’s the furthest I’ve ever travelled.” 

Marit is pouring a sugary, brown sauce onto the dumplings with a scent Ahsoka’s never experienced before. She mirrors the action, coating her own food. “We grew up together,” Marit says as if it’s an explanation. “Back in one of the agricultural outposts. Our families makes this stuff,” Marit pokes the beady grains. “It’s about the only thing that’ll grow without loads and loads of imported fertilizer.” 

“It was my dream to come to the capital,” Mette says. “The heart of fashion and glamour!” 

“I was just happy not to fix irrigation systems anymore,” Marit says.

“What’s it like working so closely with the Duchess?” Ahsoka asks. The meat-stuffed dumplings light her mouth up with savoury herbs, nicely complimented by the sauce. She stuffs a whole dumpling in her mouth, then two more. She’s starving.  

“It’s so much fun! I mean, it’s hard, because the Duchess doesn’t like small talk, so I have to be quiet all the time, and I’m, like, biting my tongue.” 

“Literally,” Marit grins. “I taught her that trick.”

“You’re so smart, Marit! I don’t know what I’d do without you, honestly. Anyway, I love getting the Duchess ready, her make-up is not like anything I’ve worked with before, it’s so colourful and goes on so nicely,” Mette enthuses. “And we get to overhear all kinds of things—“ 

“Mette—“ 

“Like can you believe Sir Olav spent twenty-seven thousand credits on ceremonial flowers? He’s the Minister of Technology, what would he need flowers for!” 

“Wait, what?” 

“Mette, we’re under oath to maintain our Lady’s privacy!” 

Ahsoka stops shovelling food and pays attention. 

“But she’s a Jedi, isn’t she? Maybe this’ll help her find who planted the bomb!” 

“Just because Sir Olav spent more than double our yearly salary on decorations doesn’t make him a member of the Death Watch.” 

“It might.” 

They lapse into a stubborn silence. Ahsoka doesn’t meant to take advantage of these new friends, but on the other hand, she’s got to pursue insider information. “She’s not wrong,” she tells Marit. “I’m here to get to the bottom of their attack, all I want to do is make sure you’re safe. You can trust me.”

“I told you!” Mette says. “Ask me anything, I wanna be a part of saving Mandalore!” 

With  roll of her eyes, Marit leans back into her chair and crosses her arms. 

“Anything else you’ve overheard that seems suspicious?” 

“I’ve never heard anything about Governor Pre Vizsla, but I don’t have a good feeling about him, you know?” 

“I’m with Mette on that,” Marit agrees. 

Mette puts a finger to her lips. “What else? There’s been a lot of talk about bringing in weapons, like, Madame Ogg wants to rewrite the constitution, and of course there’s Bo-Katan—“ 

“Mette!” 

Mette clasps a hand over her mouth. “Sorry, that was too far, wasn’t it?” 

“Why?” Ahsoka asks, leaning in. “Who’s Bo-Katan?”

*

If yesterday’s foray into apartments was boring, today is excruciating. Anakin stands at attention by the wall, senses at full alert— for nothing but talk talk and more talk. Satine’s in meetings all day. The topics phase in and out of Anakin’s focus. Funds for housing. Zoning laws. One weepy businessman facing debilitating debt. When weapons come up during a Minister meeting, Anakin’s ears perked up, but Satine shuts it down. She works through lunch, reading more on her datapad than she eats.

He’s not thinking about Obi-Wan. He’s not. He’s stupid and doesn’t deserve an ounce of Anakin’s feelings. ‘Tell him.’ Hah. So much for Ahsoka’s theory. What was Obi-Wan’s deal anyway, getting so hung up on a couple of words? Satine’s not exactly innocent, she’s been just as rude to him. Padmé would’ve listened. She cared. Stars, he missed her. If she were here right now, he’d pull her into his arms and kiss her— 

Metal scrapes against glass, snapping Anakin out of his thoughts. Satine pushes her chair from the table, leaving untouched her plate of raw meats. “You might as well come,” Satine says. “The children will like to see you.”

“Children?”

“Yes, I’m giving a presentation at Kryze Academy.”

A school? Anakin holds his hands up. “I’m not the best with kids.” They’re loud and noisy. Worse than that, they don’t listen. He’s shirked teaching Jedi younglings, cringing at the mere thought. He’s fast and on the go. Not the best technique for people who need everything broken into bite-sized bits. Ahsoka’s an exception. She just gets it. 

“Not even with Padawan Tano?” 

“Ahsoka? She’s a teenager, not a kid. And not much of a teenager. She’s more like an immature adult. What?”

“Nothing,” Satine smiles. 

The ship is sleek and glossy, elongated like a Tabitha nose. “Is this a Naboo ship?” Anakin can’t help asking. 

“No, but Naboo did lend us blueprints.” 

Right. Padmé’s friends with her. 

Anakin prefers down-on-their-luck ships, one third original parts and the rest replaced over the years. They’ve got more character; more intriguing mysteries to follow. The engine on a mint royal ship like this will run like it’s never had a bad thought in its life and be as boring as a lecture. Still, he wouldn’t have minded piloting it. Just imagine how fast it goes.

“Are you sleeping with your Padawan?” Satine asks. 

He jolts in his plush leather seat. “What? No! Why would you say that? Oh.” Anakin blushes. “It’s different with me and Obi-Wan.” 

“How so?” Satine has no sense of shame. She looks at him straight on. But this is personal.

“I love him,” Anakin mumbles. “From the moment I saw him.” 

“Hm,” Satine says. “And if Padawan Tano felt the same about you, would you sleep with her?” 

“What— no, no way. She doesn’t, and I wouldn’t. She’s a kid,” Anakin says, bewildered. “Why’re you asking me this?” 

Satine finally moves her gaze elsewhere. The scenery streams besides them in a blur of green and grey. Chin supported by curled fingers, she looks as brittle ice shards. He could break her, Anakin realizes. She has to be handled with care. No wonder she’s so prickly. “I merely wish to understand the typical dynamics between teacher and apprentice. Interesting how quickly you Jedi shift back and forth who’s defined as a child and adult. Did General Kenobi take advantage of you?”

“Never!” Anakin hears how loud his voice is; lowers it. “I’m the one who started it, he said he waited until I did.” 

“Is that so.” Anakin wants to defend Obi-Wan. Aside from being a jerk who doesn’t know a good love confession when it bites him, he’s really the best being this side of the galaxy and Anakin would die for him. But her statement is so final it’s clear the conversation is over. He crosses his arms. What the heck just happened?

*

The piercing smell of chlorine permeates the first floor. It’s a cleaner scent than any of the other prisons Obi-Wan’s been in, but it’s no more pleasant for the scrupulous hygiene. It’s dark and somber and if the Force wasn’t there to guide him, he’d need a flashlight. “Might go a bit mad in a place like this, don’t you think?” Artoo responds. “No, I realize droids don’t go crazy. I’m thinking more of us organic beings.”

Each cell is covered by a humming energy field. Most likely the voltage is high enough to send a human into shock. He’s seen a photo of Sisko Thorn from the day of her indictment: haughty, long face, silver streaks in her hair. Even so, he would’ve walked right past her hadn’t Artoo beeped. The woman in the cell lies in a fetal position, bare feet curled around each other. 

“Artoo, are you up for a bit of snooping?” The droid beeps affirmative. The critter has a knack for getting itself into trouble, not unlike his friend Anakin. “See if you can’t download the prison’s database, I suspect we’ll find quite some interesting information.” With a merry whirl, Artoo wheeled off into the darkness.

Back to his prisoner. Sisko but lifts her head as the scanner register’s Obi-Wan’s chip. The energy field parts for him to enter. “Ms. Thorn?” Obi-Wan says. Her head falls back onto the bunk. “My name is Obi-Wan Kenobi. I had a few questions for you. Is this a good time?” 

She groans and rolls towards the wall. Right. Not the best time. That window had passed three years ago when she was first incarcerated. “I’ll take that as a yes. Care to tell me how you came to be here?” Silence. How to reach a formerly Mandalore-proud, now clinically depressed, champion? Frame it so as to glorify her past. “I heard you fought valiantly to bring back Mandalorian culture.” That catches her attention. She tilts her head. “The honour duels, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes,” Sisko whispers. “I felled my mortal enemy in combat and they called me a criminal.” 

Obi-Wan takes a cautious step. Her hair is a rat’s nest, some of the old silver still in the tips, but mostly a dingy blonde. He doesn’t miss the untouched stew in the delivery bin or the lack of anything to do but stare at darkened walls. He understands murder is unpardonable, yet this seems extreme. Letting people rot in oblivion is a shade too cruel. Does Satine know of these conditions? “Forgive my boldness, Ms. Thorn. I must ask you: did you ever participate in political activity before your… felling?”

She leans up on her elbow. A glimmer of that haughtiness of yore reaches her eyes. “Why? What’s it to you?”

*

Eight rows of desks by five. Forty stony students staring at him. Eighty eyes. Anakin shifts his weight from one foot to another. Normally when there’s this many eyes on him it’s a horde of droids. His tactic there of grinning and whipping out his lightsaber seems inappropriate. It’s unfair. He’s a bodyguard, not a sideshow feature. What’s he doing here?

“Good morning, students of Kryze Academy.” Satine clasps her hands over her stomach. She looks weirdly humble. “When we first scheduled today’s event, we meant it as part of the Celebration festivities. And now…” She casts her gaze down at her gown of midnight blue. “We have a tragedy to mourn.” Are these kids about to cry? Because of the bomb a few days ago? “I imagine you have many questions.” 

Silence suffocates the room. “Please. You are the future of Mandalore. I want us to understand this together.” Unlike her frosty expression at the Palace, Satine looks… sincere? Is she nice? One of the kids, thirteen or fifteen, raises his hand. His high-collared uniform fits better than most like he was born for military rank. “Yes, go ahead,” Satine encourages. 

“How could you let it happen?” 

Energy spikes in the room. “Ollie!” the teacher at the front scolds. Anakin steps forward, hand hovering over his lightsaber hilt. If things go south, his sworn duty is to Satine. 

Satine holds her hand out, commanding stillness. “It’s all right. Ollie, I ask myself the same thing every day. I swore a sacred duty to keep ensure your protection and I’ve failed.” 

A sob breaks out in the back. It’s a girl, face burrowed into her hands. Anakin doesn’t understand, but his heart twists all the same. 

“I know some of you lost family,” Satine says. “And nothing I say or do will ever replace them. I am so, so sorry.” 

“But that doesn’t answer my question— how could you let it happen?” Ollie persists. 

“As defence engineer students, I trust you’re familiar with the Three Tier Security System?” A couple of the students nod. Satine calls on one of them to describe the system. Anakin’s never heard of it before, for all that he’s an expert in ground, aerial, and spatial combat. The principles make no sense. The students volunteer answers about how the Three Tiers “neutralize” threats and create “proactive protection.” What a big, stinking mound of bantha poodoo. Only weapons will take care of things trying to kill you.

“But what good do these systems do if we’re not safe?” The crying girl speaks, voice raw. “We save lives but ours are at risk! What do you say to that, Jedi? Do you think we should die so our aggressors live?” 

All eyes swerve back to him. Anakin’s not unaware this isn’t the time to advertise lethal weapons. He feels nervous in a way he never does jumping off a cliff. “Um.”

*

Ahsoka’s search through public records reveals cursory information. Bo-Katan Kryze was second and last child to Duke Gapr and Duchess Yrsa, five years younger than Satine. In the most recent photo, just before the Rouge Revolution, her cheeks are chubby and thin lips stretched tight. She holds Satine’s hand, both girls dressed regally but with a distant look, as if prescient of what’s to come. Years after her disappearance, the government reluctantly announced she was likely dead.

Satine having a dead sister isn’t that big a deal. Ahsoka had tried to get more details, but Marit yanked Mette from the table, stomping out of the eating hall without bussing their trays. Bo-Katan was just a kid when she vanished. What could be so unspeakable about a child? 

Mandalore’s got its own holonet, but in the end all cybernetics bend to the laws of binary. Ahsoka cracks her fingers. Slicing into the undernet is child’s play, though the content isn’t. It’s where illegal matters of all stripes reign, from illicit substances to calls for hitmen. It’s laughably easy to find herself in forums for those calling themselves the True Mandalorians— only one branch of which was the Death Watch. Ahsoka wrinkles her nose skimming through the messages. It’s a chaos of unreadable spelling mistakes, proposterous misconceptions about the laws of physics, and rampant speciesism. “Yeesh,” she says to herself. “You’re not really selling yourselves, guys.” 

Seems like the groups couldn’t even agree on how to restore True Mandalorian Glory. The discussion boiled down to two sides, that of taking over the government through elections or plain and bloody overthrow. Advocates for mass murder fell into silence when called to put their words into action. Debates raged on the relative hotness and opinions of politicians including, Ahsoka couldn’t help but notice, that of Minister Olav. Okay, no more questions about where that twenty-seven thousand credits vanished to.

Ahsoka clicks on the active thread ‘Takeback Day.’ “Oh, no,” she says. “Oh, no, no, no, no.”

*

Dozens of voices burst out in the classroom. The children don’t bother raising their hands, just throwing out question after question.

“Is that a real lightsaber?” 

“Don’t the Separatists have a right to autonomy?” 

“Have ever you killed anyone?”

It’s a wave of interrogation. Anakin throws a desperate look at Satine. It’s the teacher who comes to his aid. “One at a time, and remember your manners!” 

Anakin scratches the back of his neck. The feel of his leather glove reminds him who he is. Anakin Skywalker, General, Jedi Knight, soon to be Jedi Master. He can handle a handful of brats. “Yeah, it’s a real lightsaber,” he says and pulls out his sword. It ignites with a satisfying whoosh, its power and weight comforting. The accompanying hush is even more rewarding. “The Separatists are villainous scum, and we the Republic will bring them to justice!” He can practically feel Satine’s eye roll behind him. Never mind. The audience before him is riveted. “And, yeah, I’ve destroyed my share of enemies.” No need to mention the entire village of innocent children and women he murdered in his insatiable lust for vengeance, and how he’d do it all over again, right now— 

The girl who’d cried stands up and slams both hands on the desk. “Did destroying them make you safe?” 

The fire in her eyes is familiar. More than that. It’s the same as his. 

His mother is still dead. No matter how many corpses burned in her name, she’ll never come back. But that doesn’t matter. 

“They had it coming,” Anakin says. He deactivates his saber. “Anyone who dares cross my path will meet the same fate.” 

A silence descends again, but— the students look scared this time. Anakin suddenly remembers who they are. Just kids. They’ve probably never even seen a real cut. The bomb a few days ago might be the first violence they’ve experienced; their first fright. A chasm spans between them. Violence was just a part of his life growing up. It’s what happened to the slaves who didn’t toe the line, or weren’t talented enough to be spared. He can’t imagine this level of innocence. 

“Does that answer your question?” Satine asks. “Do you think General Skywalker has found his way to peace?” 

She’s red now, but if it’s from anger or embarrassment, Anakin has no idea. She sits back down, the fire in her eyes smouldering.

“Any more questions?” Satine invites.

Anakin slinks away from the centre. He has no idea why, but he feels shamed. And— there’s another negative feeling, but it’s not coming from him. His honed instincts kick in and he scans the windows and exits. There’s an enemy somewhere. Near. He lights up his blue blade again, searching, ready to strike. 

“General Skywalker—“ 

It’s not a person. It’s a thing and it might be too late. “Move!” he shouts. “Everyone, out of here, now!”

*

The suspicion he’s incited in Sisko’s brought her back to life. Just not in a way he hoped. “I’m trying to help,” Obi-Wan says as if talking to an animal with a broken leg. “You may not know, but there’s a group seeking to harm—“

“I do know.” 

Somehow Obi-Wan doubts she has a subscription to HNN. Write up the prison as one more compromised agency. “Do you support them?” 

Sisko laughs. “Look at the harm they’ve done to me.” 

“It’s not too late,” Obi-Wan argues, but he senses that the interview is slipping out of his control, if he ever had any to begin with. “I know the Duchess, I can plead on your behalf. Perhaps if you share information, we can secure you release—“ 

“I don’t need your freedom or your pity,” she spits. As she stands, she sways with the gait of the seasick. Obi-Wan leans towards a defensive form, ready to snap into action if it comes to that. “Group? We’re everywhere, Jedi. We’re in your shops and governments and schools. Take that to your precious Duchess. Our true leader is coming and they’ll make everything right again. Glory will be restored to Mandalore!” 

“True leader? Is it Almec?” 

“The Prime Minister? That sycophant? Never.” Sisko smiles with pride. “It’s—“ 

Red foam spills from her mouth. Blood. She frowns, touching her throat. More liquid pours out and she sputters, trying to catch the life liquid with bare hands. Blood splatters onto Obi-Wan’s robes and face. He doesn’t notice in his rush to catch her as she collapses. “Hang in there!” he shouts. But it’s too late. She’s limp. 

He turns her body around. A poison dart pierced the base of her skull. He utters a soft curse. Th9s prison is very compromised. 

Instinct alone bids him to drop the body in favour of whipping out his lightsaber. A second dart bursts through the energy field; he knocks it down. His blade up as a shield, Obi-Wan runs to the scanner with his ID chip. His exit is denied with a loud buzz. “It never can be easy, can it?” he says. “Just in and out.” 

He taps his wrist-comm. “Anakin, things have gone a little south in the prison.” 

Anakin flares up in an ephemeral green. He looks focused and angry, his lightsaber raised in Shien Form. “Not the best time, Master—“ 

Screams of children reverberate before the connection cuts out.

“Oh, Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs. “Can’t you ever time your crises around mine?”


	9. i've seen the future it is murder

The presentation goes as well as Satine could hope. It breaks her heart. These children shouldn’t experience the shock of death like this. Why else rebuild Mandalore from the ground up but to prevent this kind of loss? Maybe that girl knew someone who was in the attack. It’d explain her outburst. There must be something Satine can do. No matter how small, amends must be made.  

At least Anakin proves her point with his pompous sword waving and manic gaze. He who lives by the sword will die by the sword. Is this the result of Obi-Wan’s work? 

The boy whips his blade out again. Amazing. Does he know no boundaries? “General Skywalker—” Satine says.

“Everyone, out of here, now!” he shouts.

Predictably, panic erupts. Students stand and shriek out of excitement. Some run for the door; others look around for answers. The teacher yells for everyone to come back and sit down. Satine tries asking Anakin what in the world he’s up to, but he’s already off, propelling desks away. “I said move!” He’s immature and selfish, but surely he’s not crazy. Satine comes forward to see. Anakin admonishes, “Stay back!” 

The urgency in his voice reaches the students. They push and shove in a mad rush. Shoes and chairs scuff the linoleum. Does she help them or pin Anakin down?

Floor tiles rip from the floor, Anakin yanking them up in fistfuls of air. “Go,” Satine says to the pale teacher. With a squeak she flees. 

Now it’s just her and Anakin in a mess of desks and flooring. “You… could go… too.” His physical exertion is such that his words become grunts. 

“You don’t know me near well enough if you think I would.” 

With a final groan, Anakin tears cement into rocks. All blood drains from Satine’s head. There, nestled in the foundation like seeds in earth, are explosives enough to blow the roof sky-high. “Oh.” A million thoughts run through her head. Who put this here? Are they nearby? Satine pulls out the taser gun tucked in her sleeve; brings her other wrist to her face and transmits an emergency signal. “This is Duchess Satine. Everyone must leave Kryze Academy now. This is not a drill.” 

Floating rocks crash as Anakin lets them fall. “Seriously, get out. We have no time!” 

“And leave you?” Satine doesn’t care for Anakin but she won’t abandon a team member. “Come with me!” 

His face contorts with concentration, palm splayed towards the bomb. “Can’t. I can keep it from exploding for a few minutes. Enough for everyone to get out.” 

Oh, by the name of all Mandalorian ancestors, he’s inherited Obi-Wan’s vain sense of self-sacrifice. He’s holding the bomb intact through sheer willpower. Once he tires… “And then you die?” 

Anakin’s grimace stretches taut. Beads of sweat form on his brow. “Not. Helping.” 

Bright pink and purple wires run through the explosives. There is no ticking or clock to announce its burst. 

But this bomb is nothing to the combined abilities of a Duchess and Jedi. “What will help?” 

*

Ahsoka tears through the halls. “C’mon, c’mon,” she mutters, tapping her wrist-comm. “Just answer!” But neither Anakin nor Obi-Wan respond.

Who do you call when there’s ticking bombs spread throughout the city? 

She skids around the corner and nearly knocks over two young women. “Hey!” It’s the voice that triggers the familiarity. 

“Mette! Marit!” It’s the two she met just this morning at breakfast and given her the lead on Bo-Katan. “Thank goodness!” Ahsoka grabs the more sensible Marit by the shoulders.

“Ahsoka? What’s the matter? You look like someone’s on fire.” 

“I’m not on fire, but the Palace is about to blow up!” 

Mette gasps and leans against a wall like she’s going to faint. “Oh, my parents warned me about the dangers of the capital….!” 

“What do you mean?” Marit demands. 

“I don’t have time to explain, but the Death Watch’s planted bombs all over Sundari, including the Palace!” Ahsoka can stop one bomb but not all. Even if she could get a hold of Anakin and Obi-Wan, there’s not enough of them. “Who’re the emergency services here, how do I get a hold of them?” Ahsoka barely registers Mette holding a dramatic hand to her forehead. 

“Where?” Mette asks. 

She doesn’t have the time to go through all the places. “I’ve downloaded a list, one of them is the Kryze Academy, where the Duchess and Anakin— my Master— went—” 

Mette chews her lip. “And one’s in the Palace? Do you need to go to it now?” 

“If you don’t want to be blown into smithereens, yeah.” Marit slumping to the ground but that’s the least of Ahsoka’s worries. Better fainted than in pieces.

“Go,” Mette says. “Give me the list, I’ll get a hold of the emergency departments, I’ve got direct contacts in case the Duchess needs them.” 

“Perfect,” Ahsoka breathes. “Thank you, thank you—” 

She sprints with nothing but the Force to guide her to the bomb. 

*

Obi-Wan fends off another round of poison darts. “These aren’t effective, as you can see!” he shouts. Just because they’re trying to murder him doesn’t mean he can’t offer constructive criticism. But the invisible sniper doesn’t seem his take the feedback; more darts come for him. “How many of those do you have?” 

He can’t stand here and shield himself from artillery for the rest of time. Either he’ll collapse from sheer exhaustion or their reinforcements will show up. 

His own won’t come, not anytime soon. Anakin will be here as soon as he can, “can” being the key word. He has his hands full with… whatever that racket was. And Obi-Wan hasn’t been able to reach Ahsoka either, his comm links have been jammed. That leaves only one being at hand— one that isn’t Obi-Wan’s strong suit. “Artoo, right about now would be a good time to save the day!” 

Another cue ignored. No sign of Artoo. A bitter pang: in the end, he has no one but himself. 

No matter. It’s true of anyone. No man is an island, but everyone faces moments alone. When that time comes, you cannot crumble. Fight; live another day. Lightsaber in one hand, he sends the cell bed flying at the energy field sealing him in. Sparks illuminate the room in silver and gold. That should give him thirty seconds. Obi-Wan pierces the wall, fortified steel. His blade of blue melts the metal like candy floss; the fumes makes his eyes smart. He presses on. “C’mon,” he encourages, working the more stubborn material with the Force. 

Just in time. As the bed falls over with a heaving crash, the circle he cut out gives way. He jumps-rolls through his hand-made exit into the next cell over. “Excuse me,” he says to the prisoner cowering in the corner. “You can follow me out of here if you like, but just be warned that I’m being pursued by assassins.” 

Think. He can’t just cut his way out of this maze of a prison. For one thing, Satine would lock him up for extensive property damage. More to the point, he doubts his pursuers are that dumb or slow. He’s never going to get out of here alone. Artoo’s still his best bet. The thing is loyal enough to track any one of Anakin’s loved ones to the bitter end. The dogged droid is probably burning up his wheels trying to find him. Machines that think and move and have feelings are more Anakin’s domain. What would he do? 

In that grim moment, Obi-Wan smiles. What would Anakin do? He doesn’t even need to ask. It’s too obvious. 

He drives his lightsaber into the id scanner. Klaxons blare and eye-searing yellow and orange lights flash. “Prisoner escape, prisoner escape, prisoner escape,” drones a lifeless voice. “All guards on duty, go find the escaped prisoner or prisoners.” The alarms deafen Obi-Wan, but through the Force he senses humans running to and fro; their mindless panic. No matter what side they’re on, Satine’s or the Death Watch’s, the guards will be a distraction.

“That’s the ticket,” Obi-Wan says, satisfied. 

No sense in shouting for Artoo now. It’ll have an idea of where he is, since he hasn’t travelled far from the original cell, so a visual cue should do the trick. The electric wall already sputters in confusion from the attack; Obi-Wan slashes at the ID scanner over and over. The smell of plasma overpowers the space. “Do you want me to be murdered, Artoo?” he mutters to himself. 

And there, in the looming darkness, the showering plasma’s orange and yellow glint off a familiar dome. “Artoo! Took you long enough!” It emits a series of high-pitch indignations, of which Obi-Wan catches words like ‘ungrateful’ and ‘your own mess.’ “Yes, yes, I know, it’s all my fault, thank you for coming to my rescue, now can you please get me out of this prison?” 

*

Anakin would die before admitting it, but his muscles tremble from holding the bomb together. It wants to go off. Touching it through the Force, its desire to explode is sweet, melancholic. He can’t believe he is thinking this about a weapon, but the bomb’s need to let go is like his longing for Padme. Inescapable, irresistible, intoxicating. He almost wishes he could let it fulfill its purpose of destruction.

Except that he has his own purpose. “What will help, Duchess, is if you save your life!” Obi-Wan would never forgive him for letting her die. He can’t face that shame. If the price is his own death, then so be it. Anakin won’t let Obi-Wan down. Won’t let him think he won’t see his promises through, even if he is an ungrateful jerk. 

The obstinate woman kneels down by the explosive. “You’re a gear-head, right? Walk me through how to disarm it.” 

If he weren’t literally holding back the mechanisms to set the bomb off, Anakin could pry apart the pieces with the power of his mind. He can feel its shape and innards. Here is the power source; here are the radiating lines of energy. As well as he understands the device, how to put it in words? He can’t describe what is a mixture of instinct, Force sensitivity, and decades of obsession with machinery. 

“What do you have to lose?” Satine prods. “If we try and perish, it’s no worse than not having done anything at all.” 

“Fine.” She’s going to drive him crazy. When they’re both dead he’ll haunt Obi-Wan and tell him it was her own fault. “Lift it— careful, it’s a bomb, not a potato— there’s um, a panel, you gotta get it open—” 

“Here?” Satine taps at a near-invisible groove. Holding the weighty thing with one hand, with the other she draws a blade from a hidden side pocket. 

“A knife?” Anakin asks, incredulous.

“I’m a pacifist, not an idiot. I’ll defend myself if I have to.” She neatly pries the mechanism open. “Now?” 

At first it feels like delaying the inevitable. How’s this spoiled, fancy-prancy Duchess going to find her way through a machine? But she follows him step by step, even when he doesn’t have a layman’s words for the pieces. She pries apart the different wires; extracts the right one, even though they’re all the same shade. “Is this the one?” 

The sweat is pouring down his back by now. He can’t take this much longer. But they’re so close. Anakin gives the slightest of nods, trying to preserve his energy. If he can just hold out—

Satine stabs the wire with her knife. Anakin can hardly believe it. The Force itself sighs in release, for the danger is no more. Anakin collapses, his focus and strength giving out. 

“Is that it?” Satine asks. “Are we done?” She rises and brushes off her knees. Is she serious? She just stared death in the face, disarmed it, and now’s treating it’d been just a boring meeting? His cheek on the cold linoleum, Anakin chokes out a laugh. “What?” Satine presses, annoyed. Anakin can’t help himself; he cracks up until his stomach hurts. “What’s so entertaining?” 

Anakin tentatively flexes his arms. He’s going to be sore for days. “You’re not just a wilting politician, are you.” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” 

“I think you do.” 

The corner of her mouth twitches. “I suppose you’re more than a self-centred muscle-head, yourself.” 

“Self-centred muscle-head?” 

But in her usual brusque way, Satine doesn’t bother to comfort his indignation. She’s already tapping her comm. “This is the Duchess,” she says. There’s no response. She taps it again. “This is Duchess Satine, anyone there?” 

“Maybe your comm is broken,” Anakin says, even though he can tell from here it’s in immaculate shape. 

With a slight grimace, Satine tries once more. “This is the Duchess and I demand an answer!” 

“Sorry, we have our hands full,” an agitated voice comes through. “We’re trying to get everyone out as fast as everyone as we can—” 

“The situation at Kryze Academy has been resolved, call off the evacuation.” 

“What about the other sites, are those resolved too?” 

It’s just a second but Satine pales. Anakin hadn’t thought she could get any whiter. “What other sites?” 

“Don’t you know? It’s everywhere!”

Satine runs back to where their ship is, and Anakin can’t fault her instinct. He follows. “Give me a full briefing now,” she says. 

“Yes— ma’am— my Lady— I don’t know all the details, but there’s reports of bombs in the Palace, and the International Space Port, and where else, the Central Plaza—” 

“What reports? Have the bombs gone off?” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t have all the details—” 

“Then get me someone who does!” 

*

Satine despises the Mandalorian helmet. With its opaque dark lines for eyes and the stripe down the middle, it is cartoonish at best and offensive at worst. 

It stares at her now, inhuman and cold, from the giant screen. She’s lost count of how many times she’s watched this broadcast. Not enough to identify who infiltrated Sundari’s airwaves and forced this transmission on her people. Whoever is behind that coward’s mask uses a voice disguiser that makes them sound more grinding machine than person. Bo-Katan wouldn’t bother hiding, would she? She places so much value on strength. 

“People of Mandalore, now you know: you are not safe. Not under your fake and weak ruler.” They hold a blade that absorbs light; a wieldable black hole. Obi-Wan says it is an ancient Jedi weapon. However did they get their hands on it? “Today’s attacks are just the beginning! We, the Death Watch, will reclaim your city and all the planets under Mandalore, and bring back glory! If you are brave and righteous, join our cause! Fight—” 

The recording cuts out. “I think that’s enough,” Obi-Wan says, gently. 

Satine doesn’t want gentle. She wants justice.

The facts are these: explosives were planted throughout the city. In schools, the Palace, transportation hubs, public spaces. Thanks to Ahsoka’s research and contacts, most were evacuated before they detonated. Most. The injured counts in the dozens. The hospitals will be overwhelmed. Concordia’s the closest, already on their way with additional supplies and med-droids. Thankfully, none dead. Yet. They are coming for more.

She turns to a window and sees nothing. To infiltrate and plant their vile weapons in so many locations, and imprison Obi-Wan in her own prison— the Death Watch is everywhere. Politicians, likely. Government officials certainly. Emergency responders, teachers, cleaning crews, ordinary citizens. Where can she draw the line? Who can she says is beyond reproach? Right now, just herself. There’s no one else she can trust. Well. Padme. She’s the one who sent the Jedi, which may not have been the worst thing. But she cast the Republic’s gaze upon Mandalore, a conflict in the making Satine doesn’t need, least of all now. But whatever Padme’s qualities or faults, she’s planets away. Useless against the foes rising against her. 

The sense of betrayal lurks beneath Satine’s ribcage, threatening to rip her heart to shreds. It’s an ocean monster rippling water under ice. Satine can’t give it presence of mind. To acknowledge how deep and utter the treason facing her is— this has been her life’s work. To protect her beloved nation. She walked away from a future with the man she loved, all in the name of reviving Mandalore. And here is the repayment. To spit on her vision and shed blood in their quest for control. Forget how many government levels are affected. How many people are involved? What percentage of her citizens? 

She almost misses thinking it was Bo-Katan alone. When it was just her sister, at least it was only one person. 

The Jedi murmur behind her. Doubtless using their so-called objective judgement to decide her fate. They think they are so above the law.

But they’re the ones who kept today’s bloodbath to a minimum.

“—deployed at a moment’s notice,” Obi-Wan says to the others. He strokes his beard, his other hand supporting his elbow. His thinking pose.

“Excuse me?” Satine asks. Her tone intentionally leaves no room for excuses. 

Obi-Wan gestures. “We have regiments ready for deployment, my Lady. They can be here by sunrise—” 

“No,” Satine says. Her voice is rising. She lets the crescendo grow. “Quite literally, they can come here over my dead body.” 

He looks pained. She couldn’t care less. “I think today’s events prove that—” 

“There is a problem on Mandalore that must be solved by Mandalorians,” Satine says. 

“There’s no reason to be so dramatic. If the troops come for humanitarian—” 

“No.” 

Now Obi-Wan is just cross. “It’s clear that you can’t handle—” 

Perhaps her expression is what cuts him off so clearly. Her fury and grief pours out. Her hands are fists and she strides to him. “Can’t handle? I will tell you what I can’t handle. Your Republic human slaves invading my home and your Republic’s politicians deciding we cannot manage ourselves. Start with humanitarian aid? Next your Senate will vote to send guns and take over our government for or own good.” She is in striking distance; she attacks with words. “You agreed to my terms, Obi-Wan. If you can’t abide by them, I will have you escorted off this planet right this second.” 

“Wow,” Anakin says under his breath. Satine only hears him; she’s too busy glaring at Obi-Wan to see. 

*

“My Lady,” Ahsoka interjects. She literally inserts herself between Satine and Obi-Wan. “We want to help, that’s all.” 

Satine tenses her shoulders like twine around a spool. Her anger smells of vinegar and burnt circuits. Ahsoka fully expects her to keep yelling, but she takes her time to speak, breathing deeply. She is a tidal wave receding. Padawan Tano,” she says, staccato and slow. “I owe you a debt. If not for you, hundreds would have perished. But you’re young. You don’t understand. We would lose sovereignty with your so-called help.” 

Maybe I’m young but I’m not stupid, Ahsoka wants to snap back. The Death Watch is out to get them and she doesn’t want trained soldiers? She yells at Obi-Wan for making perfectly sensible suggestions? And Ahsoka’s not thrilled at all the secrets Satine’s been keeping to her chest. If her conversation with Marit and Mette are anything to go by, there’s so much Satine’s hidden. All they want is to bring peace to her planet and she’s making it hard. 

If Ahsoka shouts back, they’ll be kicked off Sundari. They won’t be able to help anymore.

Obi-Wan’s words come back to her: make the choice you can live with.

Ahsoka chokes back telling her off. It’d be so much easier to pull an Anakin and growl with fangs. 

But before she can formulate an argument in favour of calling in the troops, Anakin asks, almost nonchalantly: “You choose death over freedom?” 

Satine almost sneers. “Without question.” Her confidence chills Ahsoka. “The Death Watch we can handle. They are pitiful terrorists. The Republic would be monsters, and us grovelling worms fit to be consumed. If I must select my enemies, then I summon the ones who came from my own side. We will bring them to justice.” 

Silence fills the room. Death over freedom. That makes no sense. If you’re dead, you can’t fight back. 

“All right,” Obi-Wan concedes. How can he agree? It’s madness! “If you choose death, how do you wish to proceed?” 

“Hmph,” Satine snorts. She turns her back to them all, hands clasped behind her. “We agree that all my levels of government have been infiltrated?” 

“Duh,” Anakin says. 

She whirls towards them. “Then I want a party.” 

“A— what?” Ahsoka asks. “Like, a political party?” 

“No. A party with music and dancing and costumes.” 

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says. There’s admiration in his voice. “And you invite everyone.” 

“I don’t get it,” Anakin whispers to Ahsoka. 

She scrunches her nose. “I don’t either. It’s her last hurrah?” 

“General Skywalker.” 

Anakin straightens like a student called in class. “Yeah?” 

As Satine tilts her head, the pearls and gold rings in her head piece chime. “You risked your life today for those students. I will never forget your bravery.”  

He’s floored. Ahsoka snickers to herself. “You’re— welcome, my Lady.” 

“And you, Padawan Tano. You remind me of myself when I was younger. Bold, resourceful, ready to protect. You do the Jedi proud.” 

Though she had just laughed at Anakin for being overwhelmed, with the Duchess’ appreciative attention on her, Ahsoka too is humbled. “Thank you, my Lady.” 

“Finally, Obi-Wan. Despite my better judgement, I seem doomed to have to trust you.” 

“My deepest apologies, Satine.” 

The Duchess eyes them one by one. “It gives me no pleasure to admit it, but I have no one else to turn to. Will you help me smoke out the traitors in my midst?” 

Ahsoka doesn’t really understand what’s going on, but her instinct and training guide her on one path: aid those in need. Incredibly enough, she senses in the Force that everyone, including Anakin, who so hates Satine, feels the same. “It would be our honour, my Lady. But on one condition: you can’t hide information from us anymore.” 

It’s the first time she’s ever seen the Duchess blush. “I can’t promise that.” 

Ahsoka gestures. “Okay, fine, not, like, all your state secrets. But anything that’s relevant to catching the Death Watch. Like Bo-Katan?” 

Another first: seeing panic rise in Satine. “How do you know that name?” 

Obi-Wan tilts his head. “Bo-Katan? What would her dead sister— oh.” Satine averts her gaze. “Please don’t tell me you lied to me about her death.” 

“Presumed dead,” she says, voice soft yet firm. “I never lied.” 

“You’re not presuming, are you,” Obi-Wan says, matching her even tone. Frustration lurks beneath the surface. “You have reason to think she’s alive. …She’s the one the prisoner tried to name before being murdered. She’s leading the Death Watch.”

Her lack of answer says it all. No wonder Marit and Mette refused to say more than the name. They knew how furious Satine would be if they’d revealed anything; they’d be fired for this offence. At the very least. 

They are past yelling. Obi-Wan’s anger is indignant and righteous. “How could you not say anything? To me?” 

Her blush fades as her proud stance returns. Satine raises her chin. “She’s the only family I have left. I will not apologize for shielding her.” 

“You’re gonna have to make another choice,” Anakin interjects. “It’s your people or it’s your sister.” 

“I see no reason why in this case I cannot have both.” 

“Your sister has killed actual people. She wants you dead. There is no way to have both!” Obi-Wan says. 

“Justice will see to that,” Satine says, stubbornly. “I do not intend to let her evade her crimes. Nor will I bring her more harm than she deserves.” 

It’s crazy, but Ahsoka can’t fault her. She understands all too well the drive to protect against all reason. 

“So, basically,” Anakin says, “you don’t want trained soldiers protecting your planet, we’re throwing a party, and you’d rather your sister live, even if she’s killing your subjects.” 

“Impressive,” Satine murmurs. “You manage to summarize the conversation yet elide the point entirely. And I don’t care if you’re against it. It’s what I want. Join me or leave me. Either is fine.” 

Again she is summoning their support. “We can still help bring down the Death Watch,” Ahsoka says. “Anakin?”

He shrugs. “I don’t get it, but it’s cool by me. Obi-Wan?” 

Master Obi-Wan runs a hand through his hair. “You’re making grave mistakes, Satine.” 

“I’m aware you believe so. Your conviction does nothing to change my mind.” 

“Fine. I’d rather be here to help you change course than leave you to flounder.” 

Ahsoka chooses to ignore the flare of anger that bursts from Anakin. So that’s not resolved.

“My patronizing knight in armour,” Satine sneers. 

“Ever yours, my Lady. Now, shall we discuss details?”


	10. bulletproof, fire away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! Good to see you again ♥
> 
> Believe it or not, I've written up to chapter 17 and am going strong. I'll start trying to publish these faster!

The stench of hard liquor hangs heavy in the air, almost as oppressive as the din in this backwater cantina. Bo-Katan’s ears ring from the noise. Broadcasters announce each detail of the Fathier races as they unfold; members in the crowd cry from triumph or loss as they realize what’s become of their gambles. A urine smell permeates, the lavatory must be backed up. They couldn’t pay her enough to go in there. 

And to think she’d been raised on the upper crust of refinement. It’ll be hers again. It’s her birthright. 

The Blue Room isn’t the greatest space but no one asks questions. If they do, it’s of no consequence when they get shot. Most fear for their lives here. Bo-Katan doesn’t. Her wrist laser is top of the line, one of the relics from back when Sundari actually made the things. It’ll pierce and burn just about any flesh species; aimed at the right organ, it’s an instant kill. Bo-Katan’s got the best aim in all the Death Watch. She should know. She’s won every not-so-friendly round of competition. 

Pre-Vizsla gulps down Concordia ale, his Adam’s apple in fluid movement. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Governor or not he’s got all the class of a slime millipede. “Another round of bombs,” he says. “That’ll shake them in their boots.” 

Bo-Katan will make any alliance necessary to achieve her goals. What matters is the end result not the journey there. It doesn’t mean she doesn’t regret her harebrained bedfellows. “Waste our time on more bombs? Why? We’ve already shown them we can infiltrate their governments and schools. If we keep doing the same things they’ll get bored. And what kind of a terrorist is boring?” Bombs are nothing. Just pure scare tactic. Maybe Pre-Vizsla gets off on wielding his power. He can have his kinks. But she means business. Bo-Katan can almost taste victory on her tongue. Satine on her knees, fearful as she stares at her ancient Jedi blade. They’re close. _So_ close.

“Death and destruction are never _boring_ , Bo.” 

“Bo-Katan,” she says. Only one person could call her that and Satine forfeit the right long ago. She’ll get Pre-Vizsla. She’d say he wouldn’t see it coming, except that everyone in the Death Watch is biding their time for backstabbing. Throw in with a bunch of murderers and you can expect more of the same. “We need to take this to the next level. Something bigger, more frightening—”  

Light flickers on Pre-Vizsla’s wristcom. He swears. “I’ve got to take this, and me, in this cruddy tavern.” 

Bo-Katan could care less about the double lives he leads. That’s his problem. 

Satine shimmers above his wrist. Bo-Katan jerks. It’s far too close to looking into a mirror, her almost-face reflected back at her in royal clothes. The high feathered collar covers Satine from chest to jaw, making her chin jut. Her Mythosaur bone skirt forms a wide circle of midnight blue velvet. Her headpiece, an ornate lacework of gold rising as antlers, belonged to their mother. Bo-Katan remembers sneaking into the treasury room and gawking; her child hands shaking from the weight as she placed it on her head. It was an atrociously heavy thing, the crown rim digging into her skull. Jealousy and rage surge in her stomach as bile. 

“Dearest Governors, you may have heard of the cowardly attacks on Sundari.” Cowardly? Bo-Katan seethes. To be called that by the greatest candy-ass baby of them all! Satine will eat each and every one of her insults. “You will have heard, as well, that we vanquished their vain attempts at destruction and chaos. Mandalore remains resolute! They will witness the strength of our mettle. It is therefore my honour and privilege to invite you personally to a Royal Jubilee to celebrate all that we stand for. Come and show those insolent curs what it truly means to be a Mandalorian.”

The message ends. “A Jubilee?” Bo-Katan echoes. Mandalorians love their parties but it seems extreme, even for drama queen Satine, to hold one as a backhanded slap against the people throwing a coup. “There’s more to it than just a celebration.” 

Pre-Viszla flicks a finger, scrolling through the attached summons. “I’d say so. Everyone’s who’s anyone invited. Must’ve figured out she’s surrounded by the Death Watch.” He gives a hearty laugh, his irksome arrogance bolstered by the booze. His breath stinks. Which is saying something, given the competing smells here. “Maybe she wants us all in one room to kill us.” 

Bo-Katan wishes. Satine wouldn’t kill them if her own life were on the line. “Or she’s hoping I’ll crash the party.” 

His grin is crocodile wide. “You in?” 

She hears a body land against a table and the ensuing breaking of wood. There’s inevitable shouts and thuds as fist punches get thrown about. 

Bo-Katan is so, so done with this life. Crashing the palace and springing the trap so clearly laid for her? It’s the very next step she’s looking for. Played right, it’ll be the last one. 

“I wouldn’t want to let her royal highness down, now would I?” 

*

For the first time since they’d reached this stupid planet, Anakin’s cool. He sits cross-legged and hunched on the _Twilight_ ’s metal floor; sets the temperature to whatever he wants. None of that cloying heat of the dome. It’s a relief. Circuits, lenses, and hardware cases lay scattered around him in a puzzle only he can solve. Well, him and Ahsoka. She’s crouched on the other end of the room assembling her own set of cameras and recorders. 

They don’t talk. The devices have to be small enough to be invisible to the human eye yet advanced enough to pick up key words. Artoo codes the trigger phrases into the recorders while Anakin and Ahsoka put the whole shebang together. Anakin’s not too proud to boast: this design is some of his best work. It requires finicky finger dexterity. Only he could’ve packed so much ability into one little chip. 

Chip to circuit, circuit to case, lense to package, done. Then, repeat. Repeat again, and again, and again. Repeat until Anakin is no more than a vehicle to create circuits. It’s been a long time since he’s focused on connection. About the closest he gets to connecting is his lightsaber to a clanker’s head. Building takes him back to making Threepio for his mom and all the ad hoc droids at the Temple, the ones that Obi-Wan prodded and asked questions about and tested. One mouse droid in particular impressed him. “I don’t think that space between the shelf and wall has been cleaned since it was installed,” Obi-Wan marvelled. Anakin smiles. He’d make droids just for himself, but it’s better when others appreciate his work. 

It’s been a long time since he’s been appreciated. Okay, Satine said nice things about him just now, how he’d saved all those people and it was brave. It’s just basically what he does, though. He should get more than just a handful of words. Respect. Admiration. Maybe when all this is said and done, Satine will announce how he saved the entire Neutral System. Not that Anakin _needs_ the accolade. It’s not Jedi-like. But it’d be okay if word reached the Council. That kind of thing gets recognition and promotions. ‘How wise that Skywalker has become.’ He’s been a Knight only a couple of years, but he’s _amazing_. At this rate he should be the youngest Master— not, the youngest Council Member. _Then_ how proud would Obi-Wan be? 

Obi-Wan better be proud of him now. Anakin let him be the one to babysit Satine. Okay, so making these recorders is infinitely better than standing around someone else’s meetings and using the Force to keep himself from visibly yawning, but Obi-Wan _knows_ what it means to have left him alone with her. Even if it’s daytime. They can’t do a lot during waking hours, can they? Anakin’s seen Satine’s schedule, it’s packed. But the two of them could talk. Exchange glances. Think of the coming night— 

He snaps the lens in half. Anakin curses. Obi-Wan loves him. He said so. He can’t take it back. It’s the first step. To having him completely. He just has to keep being what Obi-Wan wants. 

“Master?” Ahsoka says.

Crap. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.” 

“Hah,” Ahsoka says, failing to let him sulk in his misery. “Yeah, right. It didn’t go well with Master Obi-Wan, did it.” 

Ugh. He does _not_ need his Padawan meddling. “Drop it, Snips. And for the record, you suck at giving advice.” He’d told Obi-Wan what he felt like Ahsoka told him to and all it did was make him feel worse. 

*

More and more, it feels like Anakin’s on the verge of breaking. It’s not something Ahsoka can put into words. It’s not physically; Anakin’s as powerful as they come. But there’s something— brittle about him. When she prods, he snaps back. If she asks, he scowls. He’s always been surly on his best days, but the tension is exponentially worse. It’s harder and harder to get him to crack a smile. The Force hangs around him almost like a hush, cautious to approach. 

Ahsoka knows him too well to fear broaching his silence. She flicks a hardware case at him; it catches him right in the eyebrow.

“Hey! What’s that for?” 

She smirks. “Maybe you don’t like my advice, but at least my reflexes are faster than yours.” 

So Anakin screwed things up with Obi-Wan. Ahsoka’s still learning, but she knows this much: being pissed off all the time won’t make it better. If he can at least smile, then he’ll be alright. 

He sputters like an engine running on fumes. “Not a _chance_.” She braces herself for the inevitable flick back. Instead, recorder pieces begin to float. 

“What’re you doing?” Ahsoka asks. The parts come together, beautiful and elegant, flowing through streams in the Force. As if their very atoms had been destined to form recorders and Anakin was merely the wind blowing them on their way. Mesmerized, Ahsoka watches. These were fiddly bits, hard enough to wrangle with fingers. The concentration required to lift so many small parts requires more than lifting a boulder— and here Anakin is manipulating them to his will. “Show off,” she says.

“You’re just jealous.” The pieces come together faster and faster, gliding like skates on ice. 

“No need,” Ahsoka counters. Two can play this game. Hands splayed out in concentration, she lifts a set herself. Doing this by hand had been monotonous, but this, the Force sings for her as metal and circuits unite. It’s a floating puzzle, fun and engaging. She loses herself in the motions and is yet connected to Anakin, the two of them working in sync. If it’s a competition at first, Ahsoka rushing to match his speed, then by the time they’re surrounded by mounds of recorders, their hearts beat as one, the Force tying them together through the joint project. 

“Nice,” Anakin says, admiring the mountain of electronics around them.

It’s the brightest flattery Anakin’ll give. Ahsoka smiles. “Thanks.” 

The next part’s not nearly so interesting, just putting the delicate cameras and recorders into boxes. At least the tension’s lighter. Anakin’s scowl is gone. She doesn’t really want to go into the details of his private life. Ahsoka _so_ doesn’t want to know. But— at the same time, it seems like a disservice. When she was struggling over Barriss, Master Obi-Wan listened. It helped her. If Obi-Wan and Anakin are fighting, and Padmé’s across the galaxy, then Anakin’s got no one else. “I’m sorry it’s not going well with him.” 

Just like that, the tension’s back. Anakin’s shoulders hunch; the Force burns as if lit by blowtorch. “Ahsoka.” 

“I know, I know.” She presses a couple of recorders into the packaging foam. “Can I tell you something?” 

“I don’t know, can you?” 

Stars, is he _five_? Ahsoka resists rolling her eyes. Sometimes being the more mature one is exasperating. “I’m going to look for Barriss after this mission.” 

That catches his attention. He gives her a side glance. “Why’s that?” 

Ahsoka hesitates. She doesn’t want to tell, not really. It feels shameful. Even if no one’s done anything wrong. “Barriss said that if it was between saving me or a group of people, she’d kill me.” 

“ _What_?” His anger is strangely reassuring. 

“She didn’t say it like that! But it’s what she meant. If I was a danger to everyone, then she’d pick the greater good.” 

“Is this about the zombie worms?” She nods; pretends she doesn’t understand the Huttese swear words Anakin mutters under his breath. “ _After_ what you did for her?” 

This box is full. Ahsoka closes it shut with a metallic click and twists the latch. “I get what she means. It’s a hard choice.” 

“And you still want to see her?” 

“Yeah.” Ahsoka wouldn’t call it a _need_. She could survive not seeing her. It’s a definite drive, though. Where is Barriss now? Anywhere in this galaxy, thanks to this war. But she longs to see her face. In person this time. Not through the screen and distance of a hologram. Ahsoka wants to watch her reaction. What’ll she say? She has no idea. That she doesn’t like the theoretical choices Barriss would make? That if it happened again, she’d do the same thing? Ahsoka can just see Barriss’ expression, her calm twisting into guilt. It’ll put her in an impossible position. Like Ahsoka, she’s just following her own sense of right. Making the choices she can live with. Nothing wrong with that. What comfort can she offer Ahsoka? 

Even without the prospect of a satisfying resolution, Ahsoka’s got to see her. She won’t know peace until the truth is out. If she could, she’d go now. Hijack the _Twilight_ and ride out into infinite space. All that keeps her here is loyalty to Anakin and Obi-Wan. They’re counting on her. She can go after this mission. It’s okay if she just takes off without asking permission. Small infractions like not reporting in can be ignored. It’s been done before. Just a few days. Enough to address this problem weighing her down. To put it to rest and resume her training. 

Anakin breaks the quiet. “I’m in love with him.” 

Can’t he give her any credit at all? Way to state the obvious. “Yeah, I figured.” His face drops and Ahsoka knows at once it was the wrong this to say. “Sorry, Master. I’m listening.” 

He doesn’t look at her, just arranges more recorders into boxes. His meticulousness belies the frustration shimmering around him. Did she lose the thread of the moment? But once he’s had a chance to finish a layer in the absorbent sponge, Anakin speaks so softly Ahsoka must lean in to hear. “I’m in love with him, and he says he loves me, but he doesn’t act like it.” His speech accelerates. “Satine’s all over him, and I don’t own him, that’s not the Jedi way, but I don’t want him to be with her, I want him all to myself, and I don’t care if it’s selfish, I just _do_.” 

His little speech breaks every rule about attachment. Possessiveness, jealousy, and if Ahsoka’s honest, a fair deal of delusion. 

But Ahsoka doesn’t care. Anakin’s her Master, her older brother, her friend. If she’s not going to shoot those she cares about when they’re causing active harm, she’s not going to do it just because they’re hurting themselves. Maybe if Anakin were _her_ Padawan, she’d council him to let those feelings go. At this stage, that’d be like asking him to turn inside out. Impossible. At best, she can keep him from shutting her out. “That’s an awful way to feel.” 

He glances at her. “Well— yeah.” 

She doesn’t return the eye contact. This part’s delicate. She can’t counsel him, that won’t work— but she can push him in the right direction. “Do you _want_ to feel like that?” 

“What?” He’s bewildered. “Who _wants_ to feel like this?” 

“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.” 

“Of course not! I don’t like being mad and miserable! What a stupid question, Snips, are you going to ask me if I like being stabbed too?” 

“I dunno,” she says lightly. “Seems to me if you don’t like being stabbed, you sure go into fights a lot.” And if he hates being mad so much, he sure spends plenty of time that way.

“I don’t go in to get _stabbed_ ,” he says. He shuts the last box. “We’re done here. Let’s get them to the Palace.” 

“Master.”

“What.” 

Ahsoka won’t relent. Not when it matters so much. She throws him a cocky grin. “If you don’t like being stabbed, try not throwing yourself at knives.” 

“ _Geez_ , just let it _go_ , Snips.” 

“Kind of my point, Skyguy.” 

They bicker on; it’s friendlier than the stewing resentment Anakin lets himself wallow in. The victory is small; it’ll do for now. 

*

Obi-Wan might as well be a wall for all the attention he’s gotten today.

Not that he minds standing in the background, observing as Satine runs her myriad meetings. There’s a lot of coordination involved in throwing a massive ball with guests from hundreds of planets. First, there’s the convincing— no one can quite believe what she’s proposing. “A party?” more than one politician has inquired. And Satine would steamroll each time, not bothering to address their bewilderment, instead launching into their given responsibilities: invitations, decorations, media coverage, food, liquor… all in all, it’s quite the lesson in the administrative mechanics of celebrations. 

No, he doesn’t mind being the quiet one in the room, listening just as intensely to the conversations as to signs of an intruder.

He minds being shut out by Satine. 

When they’d decided it made most sense for him to guard her while Anakin and Ahsoka built the recorders, Satine shrugged acceptance. And hasn’t spoken a word to him since the other two left. Not that it _matters_. Ultimately, Satine can decide to wash him out of his life. If that’s the path she takes, Obi-Wan will respect it, whatever the grief it will bring him. That grief is his own problem and will fade. Obi-Wan’s overcome similar aches. He’d survive this and come to remember her with fondness rather than regret. 

But if he knows Satine, and he does, she’s not writing him out altogether. She’s just being stubborn and petulant and infuriating. 

They’re five hours into meetings. Obi-Wan knows more about Mandalorian titles than he’d frankly ever meant to. The Minister of Culture’s thrown him a curious look as she exits: he’s the elephant in the room. He waits for the doors to close behind Madame Pinnili before speaking. “I’m not exactly impressed with you either, Satine.” 

Her back is turned to him. Even with all the layers of mourning, Obi-Wan can see that she doesn’t even tense. “Be still, my heart,” she says, more bored than dramatic. “I shall have to learn to live with your disappointment. Somehow.” 

“You can’t ignore me forever, Satine.” 

“Try me.” She won’t even face him. It’s just so _immature_. 

“What are you even mad about? I understand that you don’t approve of my chosen career—” 

“That’s your choice to make.” 

“And you’re upset that the Jedi have intervened—” 

“I haven’t kicked you off planet yet, have I.” 

Goodness, he hates to bring up the last item. It’s so… dramatic. “And that you’re jealous of Anakin.” 

She snorts. “Jealous. Is that what you think.” Satine finally turns around. Obi-Wan’s not surprised at her reddened face; he’d rather provoked her. “Contrary to what you seem to believe, Obi-Wan, I care not in the least to discuss this any further. At all. Ever.” Satine practically jabs at the messaging system on the marble table. “Eetu, have whoever’s next on my agenda come in.” Her glare at Obi-Wan rivals the searing burn of ice. “Tell them to come as quick as they please.” 

“Satine—” 

“No.” Her palm flies up. “I said no, Obi-Wan. But allow me put your mind at ease: it’s not jealousy. How could I be jealous of that boy child? No, Obi-Wan, I am _livid_. Your own charge. He was a child in your care, and you raised him, and now you’re sleeping with him?” Each word is more venomous than the last. Stunned, he can only take the bitterness and rage. It strikes him to the core. Satine herself looks ready to physically lash out, shaking now. “I thought better of you. No. I thought the _world_ of you. Kind, brave, smart Jedi Obi-Wan. But to take advantage of a boy like that? No wonder he’s such a mess, Obi-Wan. _You_ confused him. You’re not the person I thought you were.” 

“I—” He’s stunned. Literally. What can he say to this barrage? To these accusations? That he’s _hurt_ Anakin? _Him._ Take advantage! No. All he’s ever done is support him; encourage him to grow. How can enjoying a physical relationship have damaged Anakin? Anakin’s not a ‘mess’, he’s just still figuring out how to control his passions. Satine’s out of line. “You can’t—” 

There’s a polite tapping at the door. Satine shakes herself out and calls: “Come in, do come in.” 

And just like that, Obi-Wan’s left to stew in the ugliness of these accusations. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to:
> 
> \- Zulu, for supporting me to just BE me and write my heart out *\o/*
> 
> \- Moonlight Dreams, for being such an enabler :P
> 
> \- Everyone who said they liked my stories. I’d debated keeping this fic in the drawer, but I could think of at least two whole people who’d like to see it, so. *grins* I hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Chapter title is from REM’s “Fall on Me”.


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